Mourning The Oaks

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

DANCE OF BLACK

Two figures approach
from the east, gliding over treeline.
A pair, flying a black pattern
headed downcanyon with the sun—
making a sudden U
exactly over our house to intercept
a second pair westbound
in flight. The four muster over-
head in pairs, perform a circle-dance.
I catch black corvid eye fixed
on me. The crows swing,
circle-skim our oak-tops. Are they
searching? scouting?
So much news today in our canyon—
assault on trees. Chainsaws,
chippers cleaning what’s left
in fear of fire. Sky devoid
of smoke, pure blue offsetting
black wings.
Without a word, four crows turn
west to catch the sun
before it sets, before it’s gone.

ROSACEAE

The last grandiflora bloomed almost unnoticed,
her rose garden taken over by wild plum,
rowdy cousin seeded by passing birds. A native
rose fares better, untended, in this climate.
All things must change. One day the water
stopped altogether from her hose. But even in
this year’s dry November, wild plum
goldens the dark edge of woods with its startling
yellow leaves, its geisha-graceful boughs.

IT’S DAYLIGHT AGAIN
a Golden Shovel based on Maxine Kumin’s
“The Hermit Prays”

And our work resumes, bowed to the god
of necessity, of “defensible space,” of
safety from fire. I’m carrying dregs, the
deadfall of winter cast from sheltering
canopies of oak. I step carefully on leaf-
fall, so as not to slip on hillside built of fold
upon fold of uplifted stone. I bring to your
saw dry branches splayed dead as wing-
bones. You cut them to lengths for over-
wintering, so our woodstove might keep
us warm. Can hard work breed a secret
contentment, this worry-hauling and
tether to the here/now, the need to keep
present, this day more beautiful than safe?

FORMS AND CONNECTIONS
on a line by Mary Oliver

the fires / and the black river of loss—
of course they’re connected. To prevent
the fires, men worked up and down our canyon
with chainsaws, and lo! the greatest valley oak
stood a stump between two-lane and right-of-way.
All for the sake of safety. Lives, homes.
I couldn’t explain it to the woods.
And what of our formerly unseen neighbors
on the other side? whose lives
were private up to this very day. Now
must we learn to pull our curtains tight. Every-
one in this canyon more connected
than we used to be. Not as every tree
in the woods is connected, living
roots supporting brothers, mourning their lost
cousins. Connected not by words and forms
we humans make, but deeper
like water underground; like faith. 

FREE WOOD
Vegetation Management for fire season
 
When the world gets too much with us, a big guy gets out of his pickup. I walk our rocky slope above country road, he hails me. “Wood,” he yells, “can I take it?” Fallen leaves underfoot, lichened oak trunks. He motions arms wide—chunks, lengths of oak. Buckeye’s visioning a coming season. Live-oak jackstraw’d on cutbank right-of-way. Cooper’s hawk sails from her unseen perch. Felled oak too heavy, too big for your saw. Crow above treetops, scream of red-tail. Tricky business, with traffic speeding by. I’m meditation-walking in free air—trunks and limbs on both sides of fence as the woods go about their business. More cut wood than you and I could handle. Sunlight and shade, rooted deep for water. “Is it OK for me to take it?” he asks.

trees tall enough to
breathe without us—this bounty
from oak woods cut down

THE UNION CEMETERY, PLACERVILLE
a Mirrored Refrain for the Rev. C.C. Peirce

Among stones, a place for grave reflection
on past and now; what’s above, what’s below.
Two headstones where a barefoot preacher lies
as autumn breezes through the ages flow.

His name and dates on one; just C.C.P.
on the other. What would C.C. surmise
as autumn breezes through the ages flow?—
two headstones where a barefoot preacher lies

who had no use for money or for creed,
but spread the Word where nameless grasses grow.
Two headstones where a barefoot preacher lies
as autumn breezes through the ages flow.

NIGHT SCAPE

The perfect disk of Beaver Moon
lights a neighbor’s monster RV, visible
now after drastic tree surgery
by PG&E in the name of fire-safety.
On the other side of canyon, a dog howls.
Moon’s brilliance interferes
with the next constellation over, hazing
it like mist on cobweb.
Young black cat longs to sneak
outside, to glide through autumn dark
seeking anything in flight—quail
in a brush pile, sylph flitting
through dead thistle. I keep my cat inside,
safe from the night bird with beak
and talons, silent on moon-silver wings.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is like a bird, it ignores all frontiers.

—Yevgeny Yevtushenko

_____________________

Thursday thanks to Taylor Graham for her fine poetry and photos! TG sends us forms today; for information about them, see:

•••haibun:  www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/haibun.htm

•••golden shovel:  www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/92023/introduction-586e948ad9af8

•••mirrored refrain:  www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/mirroredrefrain.html

_____________________

Today at noon, head down to the Central library for Third Thursdays in the Sacramento Room, 828 I St., Sacramento. Bring your favorite poems (by other poets) which express, explore or celebrate gratitude, thanksgiving, appreciation.

Then tonight at 8pm, Poetry in Davis features Katie Peterson and Candice Reffe plus open mic at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, mourning the oaks. Where will the night bird live? ~

 “… night bird… silent on moon-silver wings.”
—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.