—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
ACROSS THE BYPASS
We take a turnoff out of sight and that dreadful shock of commuter traffic; highway bridge just a frame now for seemingly endless gray water. We keep driving—rough dirt track, a takeout point; a heap of broken concrete like fallen headstones—till we reach a quiet place, muddy matrix of spring just budding. Fluorescent flash of wings in willow. On shore, wild geese gaggling. A portly gander. Swaggering old Falstaff, you say. You’ve been reading too much Shakespeare. Look and listen. It’s the first of spring, this brand new day.
small bird-prints in mud
pointing this way and that, gone
to water or sky
SPRING MEADOW
Traces of old mining, the grab-and-get,
the rush for gold. Tailings tell of disturbance;
rock dug up, left on the surface. Hummocks and
holes, a pocked meadow with topsoil
washed away. That stunted oak—compare
to a sturdy specimen perched on its tiny island
of original earth. Careful where you step.
No quicksand, but water springs here and there
underground, a fluid treasure.
Muddy walking if you leave the path.
No wildflowers yet, mid-March. A strange
spring this year. Where are the nesting birds?
Overhead, a crow bears one dry thread
of grass away. Enjoy spring while it lasts.
FRAGMENTS ON A BREEZE
Early Saturday. Some bird calls like a dial
tone. A breezy morning on the meadow,
anything can happen.
I clip my dog in harness, open
a ziplock bag with scrap of written paper.
Cowboy doesn’t care for words, just scent
that lingers from the girl who wrote
them: Brie.
He snuffles grasses damp with rain—
fragments, fragrances of passing.
Across meadow he pulls me out of breath.
Muddy dirt-track squiggled by beetle, worm,
boot-tread; vernal pool with secrets
of yet-undiscovered life.
Which way? Cowboy harks—
sniffs—takes off toward the pond, full-tilt.
Beyond bulrush and willow, two wild swans—
black swans floating offshore. Swans?
the mystic silhouette. The word surfacing like
a glance at letters in a ziplock bag.
So close is mystery. As if something
called across waves of sky, and a phone
answered. Slip-shot synapse of wind. Swans
lift off on huge dark wings. Gone.
Cowboy turns off the path and there,
sitting behind a live-oak, is Brie, giggling
without a sound.
Swans? I ask. Yes, swans.
ORIENTATION AT THE PRESERVE
Two dozen cars in the parking lot, we’re waiting for instruction. One raven arrives by air, perches on a leafless oak; observes us from his center of the compass rose. 2-minute history at each station of our hike. Original natives, land stewards for thousands of years, driven away by Gold Rush. Loud chirping from overhead—what bird, what chiding message? Our guide points out mounds of mine tailings, creeks diverted into ditches. The whole landscape revised a century and a half ago. Overhead, high out of sight, red-shoulder screams anger or hunger. Our tour returns us to our cars.
two wild geese circle
low over my head. This way!
they call, then they’re gone.
ANGRY?
A pair of wild turkeys
on our back deck—good safe place
for nesting? Probably not.
By now I’ve circled the house, hoping
to surprise them with my iPad.
Already they’re at the edge of woods,
finding private ways down
through rocks and oaks, speaking
to each other in Turkey, maybe berating
this butt-in human with suspicious-
looking scoping device.
Might they choose our wooded hill
for nesting? Probably not.
Already they’re out of sight. The tom
didn’t even bother with a tail display.
LATCHES ASLEEP
The kitten has wrapped himself
in snuggie on the chair. (How did he do
that?—Latches can manage any conundrum
of the physical world, it seems.) He seems
to be asleep, except one eye. He’s one-
eye dreaming of spring, of birds in nest
or on the fly. That sleepless eye
imagining April love-birds, birds wishing
to be left in peace; happy birds, angry
birds, it’s all the same to Latches.
Soon he’ll shed his snuggie and solve
the latches of those doors that keep
him from a world of birds.
Today’s LittleNip:
MAILBOX LUNES
—Taylor Graham
Two robins mid-air
in their spring mating dance
fencepost to mailbox.
What do birds
care for letters locked tight
in a box?
Our spring robins
without written words, see how
they dance mid-air.
__________________
Spring-time thanks to Taylor Graham this morning for her beautiful poems celebrating the new season. Her LittleNip is a series of three “lunes”, called “the American haiku” by some. Surely you can write one or four or six of these? More info about lunes and the variants thereof: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/lune/.
We take a turnoff out of sight and that dreadful shock of commuter traffic; highway bridge just a frame now for seemingly endless gray water. We keep driving—rough dirt track, a takeout point; a heap of broken concrete like fallen headstones—till we reach a quiet place, muddy matrix of spring just budding. Fluorescent flash of wings in willow. On shore, wild geese gaggling. A portly gander. Swaggering old Falstaff, you say. You’ve been reading too much Shakespeare. Look and listen. It’s the first of spring, this brand new day.
small bird-prints in mud
pointing this way and that, gone
to water or sky
SPRING MEADOW
Traces of old mining, the grab-and-get,
the rush for gold. Tailings tell of disturbance;
rock dug up, left on the surface. Hummocks and
holes, a pocked meadow with topsoil
washed away. That stunted oak—compare
to a sturdy specimen perched on its tiny island
of original earth. Careful where you step.
No quicksand, but water springs here and there
underground, a fluid treasure.
Muddy walking if you leave the path.
No wildflowers yet, mid-March. A strange
spring this year. Where are the nesting birds?
Overhead, a crow bears one dry thread
of grass away. Enjoy spring while it lasts.
FRAGMENTS ON A BREEZE
Early Saturday. Some bird calls like a dial
tone. A breezy morning on the meadow,
anything can happen.
I clip my dog in harness, open
a ziplock bag with scrap of written paper.
Cowboy doesn’t care for words, just scent
that lingers from the girl who wrote
them: Brie.
He snuffles grasses damp with rain—
fragments, fragrances of passing.
Across meadow he pulls me out of breath.
Muddy dirt-track squiggled by beetle, worm,
boot-tread; vernal pool with secrets
of yet-undiscovered life.
Which way? Cowboy harks—
sniffs—takes off toward the pond, full-tilt.
Beyond bulrush and willow, two wild swans—
black swans floating offshore. Swans?
the mystic silhouette. The word surfacing like
a glance at letters in a ziplock bag.
So close is mystery. As if something
called across waves of sky, and a phone
answered. Slip-shot synapse of wind. Swans
lift off on huge dark wings. Gone.
Cowboy turns off the path and there,
sitting behind a live-oak, is Brie, giggling
without a sound.
Swans? I ask. Yes, swans.
ORIENTATION AT THE PRESERVE
Two dozen cars in the parking lot, we’re waiting for instruction. One raven arrives by air, perches on a leafless oak; observes us from his center of the compass rose. 2-minute history at each station of our hike. Original natives, land stewards for thousands of years, driven away by Gold Rush. Loud chirping from overhead—what bird, what chiding message? Our guide points out mounds of mine tailings, creeks diverted into ditches. The whole landscape revised a century and a half ago. Overhead, high out of sight, red-shoulder screams anger or hunger. Our tour returns us to our cars.
two wild geese circle
low over my head. This way!
they call, then they’re gone.
ANGRY?
A pair of wild turkeys
on our back deck—good safe place
for nesting? Probably not.
By now I’ve circled the house, hoping
to surprise them with my iPad.
Already they’re at the edge of woods,
finding private ways down
through rocks and oaks, speaking
to each other in Turkey, maybe berating
this butt-in human with suspicious-
looking scoping device.
Might they choose our wooded hill
for nesting? Probably not.
Already they’re out of sight. The tom
didn’t even bother with a tail display.
LATCHES ASLEEP
The kitten has wrapped himself
in snuggie on the chair. (How did he do
that?—Latches can manage any conundrum
of the physical world, it seems.) He seems
to be asleep, except one eye. He’s one-
eye dreaming of spring, of birds in nest
or on the fly. That sleepless eye
imagining April love-birds, birds wishing
to be left in peace; happy birds, angry
birds, it’s all the same to Latches.
Soon he’ll shed his snuggie and solve
the latches of those doors that keep
him from a world of birds.
Today’s LittleNip:
MAILBOX LUNES
—Taylor Graham
Two robins mid-air
in their spring mating dance
fencepost to mailbox.
What do birds
care for letters locked tight
in a box?
Our spring robins
without written words, see how
they dance mid-air.
__________________
Spring-time thanks to Taylor Graham this morning for her beautiful poems celebrating the new season. Her LittleNip is a series of three “lunes”, called “the American haiku” by some. Surely you can write one or four or six of these? More info about lunes and the variants thereof: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/lune/.
The 2019 issue of Sac. Poetry Center's journal, Tule Review, is here. See www.tulereview.net/.
Don’t forget that Poetry Unplugged happens tonight at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar, 1414 16th St., Sac., 8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
Don’t forget that Poetry Unplugged happens tonight at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar, 1414 16th St., Sac., 8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
Robins! Spring is Here...?
—Anonymous Photo
—Anonymous Photo
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
