1

Sometimes in the open you look up

where birds go by, or just nothing,

and wait. A dim feeling comes 

you were like this once, there was air,

and quiet; it was by a lake, or

maybe a river you were alert

as an otter and were suddenly born

like the evening star into wide

still worlds like this one you have found

again, for a moment, in the open.

2

Something is being told in the woods: aisles of

shadow lead away; a branch waves;

a pencil of sunlight slowly travels its

path. A withheld presence almost

speaks, but then retreats, rustles

a patch of brush. You can feel

the centuries ripple generations

of wandering, discovering, being lost

and found, eating, dying, being born.

A walk through the forest strokes your fur,

the fur you no longer have. And your gaze

down a forest aisle is a strange, long

plunge, dark eyes looking for home.

For delicious minutes you can feel your whiskers

wider than your mind, away out over everything. 

Atavism by 

William Stafford

My first photos of one of the beavers that are

denuding our property of aspen. Also as a species

an animal which played an enormous role in shaping 

our country. The photos were taken from our screened 

in porch and therefore a bit fuzzy.

Shaun and Whateley prepare for the long journey home.

Traveling thru parkland and prairie we meet fellow travelers. 

  

"There are rooms in a life, apart from the others, rich

with whatever happens, a glimpse of moon, a breeze.

You who come years from now to this brief spell 

of nothing that was mine: the open, slow passing

of time was a gift going by. I have put my hand out

on the mane of the wind, like this, to give it to you."

                                        

 from Little Rooms

                         by William Stafford

“I dreamed that I floated at will in the great Ether,

 and I saw this world floating also not far 

off, but diminished to the size of an apple. 

Then an angel took it in his hand and brought it to 

me and said, ‘This must thou eat’. And I ate the world.” 

                                      by Ralph Waldo Emerson 

This post contains photos taken during one canoe trip on the Banana 

slough a crescent shaped body of water in front of our cabin. Sloughs 

or glacial potholes are feed by snow melt and groundwater infill rather

 than actual streams. This means the level fluctuates during period of 

high rainfall or drought. At present it is as high as anyone in the family

 can remember. This has meant lots of waterfowl, this trip, more a one 

hour meander was in early June so we encountered a glaring goose mother,

 and a pair of blackbirds determined top distract us from their nest.

Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?

For a drink of written water from a spring

whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?

Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?

Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,

she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.

Silence - this word also rustles across the page

and parts the boughs

that have sprouted from the word "woods."

                          from The Joy Of Writing

                                       by Wislawa Szymborska

" Stand still in the middle of the world,

 let it be Missoula,

 any crossroad in the west.

 You are here, alive in this place,

 touching with sight

things that are smoke tomorrow." 

                     from Alive in the World

                                by John Haines

I am still chewing thru the photos from our trip

to the cabin. What struck me about the photos I took 

on this day was the vivid colours the green, yellows

 and blues and how the birds seemed posed in

intricate sets like actors awaiting their cues.

  

 

"we become at last like trees 

 who stand within themselves, thinking. 

And when we wake--if we do--

we come back bringing the images 

of a lonely childhood: the hands 

we held, the threads we unwound 

from shadows beneath us; 

and sounds as voices in another room 

where some part of our life 

was being prepared--near which we lay, 

waiting for our life to begin."

                  from Sleep

                         by John Haines