Considering Ghosts

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

ROAD CONGREGATION

Circling shadows and a spiral-down
of wings over two-lane
to roadkill skunk fresh this very
morning. The buzzards come,
swooping; cluster; then
lift off again—
a biker speeds through,
accidental intruder
maybe catching a whiff as he
rushes by. And now
they begin again to settle—
how many? I lose my count of birds,
buzzard-blessing at our pasture fence. 

 IN A RAINDROP

It took this morning’s rain—just a drizzle—for me to notice how the creek leaves town. Main Street dwindles, swerves its straight-away in a curve banked by guardrail. Creek’s invisible on the other side, engulfed in willow thicket dusty-dull all summer—this morning, bright-washed green.

September drizzle
sets autumn-dreaming—how rain
changes everything 

DARK FLAG STREAMING

  a dechnad cummaisc

Bats wing-wispering in the eaves,
chitter-flutter
then streaming out as the sun drops,
treetops mutter

rumor the bright of Harvest Moon
as bats zigzag
their nightly hunts in day’s last light
their flight ~ dark flag. 

PRACTICES

When will we again see a Harvest Moon
perfectly full on Friday the 13th?
an unspilled globe of light balancing-
the dark supposed by superstition.

Strange practices of mortal mind
in the presence of mysteries of the heavens,

our physical world—
our awkward attempts at pinning
cycles of seasons to recorded calendar,

this flip-chart
of weeks and months on my desk.
So many days of September
already crossed out

and out the window, this wonderland
of fairylight illuminating
our summer fields already stubble

waiting for first rain. 

EXTINCTIONS

TV news: the Paiute cutthroat trout—
almost extinct before it was discovered,
mystical rainbow-shimmer fish

about to be saved for posterity.
The rest of the news is gun-
control or not, impeachment or not.

I walk outside after rain, point
my iPad at Homer’s rosy-fingered dawn
and, in the other direction,

a departing no-longer-full
Harvest Moon, silver-shimmer
in clear blue. 

IT’S THE SAME OLD MOON

But the Hunter replaces the Harvest.
A first rain settled dust and now there’s
a haze like smoke over the pasture
in September’s waning lunar light, presage
of winter in waiting. A half-moon night
for sleepwalker shadows, migration
of birds high overhead passing, gone.
Open the pane, elbows on window-
sill. Feel autumn in the bone.
Consider your ghosts. 

Today’s LittleNip:

FIRST RAIN
—Taylor Graham

Is this the first rain
or possibly the year’s last?
Counting from July
to June, or October to
September? Hydro-
logic year or rain year? Ask
the hydrologists.
Ask Google. It seems to be
a hydro quizzy-quibble.

_____________________

Taylor Graham sends us poems (and pix!) today of first rain and the Harvest moon and of the ghosts of autumn that are inching toward us, and we thank her for that! For more about the Welsh form, the dechnad cummaisc, see www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/dechnad-cummaisc-poetic-forms/. As for “hydro quizzy-quibbles”, well, you’re on your own, there…

—Medusa, considering my ghosts ~

 … Feel autumn in the bone …
—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.