Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz)
caught these shadows of poplar leaves
on the side of his Foothill Farms house
during yesterday's eclipse of the sun.
ECLIPSE
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
Just for this moment, the lawn
is laced with crescent sunbeams.
Ever-diminishing light filtered through
oak trees on our sunset side.
Don't look directly at the sun, they
warn. Even so, it's like wearing dark
glasses—the sun allows us
only so much light
in a human life, if we wish to
go on seeing.
My lawn is littered
with crescent-fragments of sun, just
for this moment
of annular eclipse that won't come
again, I guess, in my life-
time. I'm on my lawn
trying to capture glimmer-gold
fragments on grass. My own shadow
keeps coming between.
________________________
PAST THE MILL GORE
—Taylor Graham
Where is that sleeve of land unfastening
into water? Searching for you,
I listen for the sound of falls, but today
it's dust and we're forever thirsty.
Five vultures cruise the geologic tilt, dizzy
views over canyon. Water forms
everything. Pines grow unthrifty here
beyond their range, where logging trucks
rust with choker chains in rattle-coils.
The dirt road holds aging footprints.
Where did you go? I trip on
my own shadow. Water is the mystery.
______________________
DREAM IN TIME
—Taylor Graham
The night's loom
about to unravel, room
by room as we dream the dark—
mirror-sparkle midnight bloom:
warp and woof,
woven threads to bind a roof,
foursquare walls around, above.
Shuffle of white horse's hoof
as dream fades
into sleep. Purples and jades
of Memory, spring fleece spun fine
as Design sharpens her blades.
(Rannaicheacht Ghairid Irish form)
______________________
—Photo by Katy Brown
THE LAST OF SPRING
—Katy Brown, Davis
—Katy Brown, Davis
If you chase winter far enough up the mountain,
running from the valley heat,
you will come upon a glade where spring
still lingers in bottle-green shade.
Dogwood dropped the last brown petals
weeks ago down in the valley.
Here, shy spring still hides
behind a fan of leaves.
Soon enough, winter snow
will melt in alpine country, drawing heat
to high mountain peaks;
and all of pastel spring will be a memory.
Today, flowers cling to branches,
tossing in a breeze that tumbles
dust and daydreams,
caught between the turn of seasons.
_______________________
Today's LittleNip:
A FILAMENT OF SONG―
haunting, otherworldly―
a flit of movement across the drive―
and in the deep green cypress,
a tiny bird with firecracker-orange head
alights―
song still pouring across the morning,
so much sound from such a tiny throat. . . .
haunting, otherworldly―
a flit of movement across the drive―
and in the deep green cypress,
a tiny bird with firecracker-orange head
alights―
song still pouring across the morning,
so much sound from such a tiny throat. . . .
—Katy Brown
______________________
—Medusa
Giuliana Gabrielli and Annie Menebroker
[Be sure to check out Medusa's Facebook page
for our Annie's new photo album of the
WTF release at Luna's last Thursday night!]