Third and Vine

The dog-day cicadas are in their element now. The heat reminds them that this is the time for dating and mating, and egg-laying. This has been a good summer for the heat lovers. Day after day of high temperatures and humidity. The bugs are big and loud. When you move too close, they sound like a wind-up toy. And they are good-sized for buzzing and making you jump. They are all over the neighborhood.

I love them.

In this area, they are also hunted. Eastern cicada-killer wasps patrol our yard. We see two or three buzzing around every year. As the name suggests, they prey on cicadas. These are big wasps, though thankfully, they tend to have little interest in humans. They are ground dwellers, so we’ve noted where they nest and avoid it. (Jerry said. “Look up ‘dangerous wasps’ in Illinois.” I said, “It’ll just come up with a church enclave.”)

I tend to love this lumbering wasp as well.

And yesterday, as we were arriving home after a morning appointment, two hummingbirds were having a spat by the garage, and as it opened, they seemed confused over the new territory to battle over. There was a lot of zooming in and out before they zipped away.

The dragonflies are always about, as there are several ponds and a creek close by. And now quite a few butterflies are enjoying the cooler weather. So, there is no lack of winged creatures about.

Today I had to go to the post office, and at the corner of Third and Vine, a youngish fox was calmly working an itch. I’ve seen foxes several times in town, sometimes in our yard, but this scratch and saunter mid-morning was surprising. She would have stayed quiet in the street except that people were walking toward her, and we were all delighted by the sight.

I think the fox may have been out later in the morning as the weather broke, and it was cool this morning. We opened the windows at the house, and it popped like champagne. Ahh! This won’t be the end of the heat, but it is a welcome break.

At least the natural world makes sense. It builds no concentration camps that once built will need to be filled; if one group is gone, we’ll move on to the next. “First they came for…” *

This is inspired by a prompt years ago.

The picture is buried deep in sports, past women’s basketball, but there, right where stats end and the hunting and fishing report begins: my cabin. Thirty years since I’ve been there, thirty years since I woke to elk grazing, meandering down toward the lake. Thirty years since the bear pushed his body through the window and stared me down. Thirty years since you said I can’t live like this, and we went.

We drifted like wolves for better hunting, following the herd of our friends into the city. Gentrified and controlled, we left behind the wolverine, owl, and fox. You changed your scent, your stride, your DNA. I watched you evolve, when there was nothing left of your wildness, you left me too. Set loose, where plate glass canyons reflected eyes void of living, I drifted, worked late night jobs, doing repetitive, quiet tasks. Anywhere I could find that had me away from crowds, numb and night-blind, I got on like a zoo animal. Thirty years pacing the concrete, shadow in the moonlight, trackless in the city. Then today you called, said Meet me at Beck’s, have a beer. How could I know you, how could you know me? We’re not the same animals, not the same creatures that came out of the woods, slender and shy.

I saw the cabin before you came, looked at the day becoming night, slipped out the door. I’ve got to find a high trail.

* Martin Niemöller 

Volunteers

I have a tiny farm on my desk, a couple of sheep, a pig, a chicken, and a hedgehog. On the other side, there is a herd of elephants, and then the whole cat cathedral, complete with a collage of the seven cats we have served over the years: Comet and Sunspot, Phil, Kiki and Jackson, Zora and Ursula. I bring up the farm after yesterday’s trip to the State Fair, which, like the Tulsa Zoo, was quite animal-free. Well, it was too hot for man or woman or beast. We went into one arena to get A/C and watch the heifer class for dairy, but once the initial ah of walking in it became too warm to comfortably stay. Pretty sure all the animals that have been shown have headed home. This is the final weekend, and temps are supposed to top out at 100, could feel like 107-115. Yikes and yikes.

The tomatoes love the heat, and I gathered more than a pound this morning. These are all volunteers. The only things I planted were Cosmos, Zinnias, and Sunflowers. The only thing that has come up are Cosmos and Tomatoes. No complaints.

I’m looking back at my weak (left) hand writing from two years ago:

“The dog came to me on the third day. It sat at the edge of my vision, a peripheral movement in and out of the firelight. During that night it crept into my camp and touched its nose to my hand.”

Has this been waiting like a patient and loyal friend to join a story I am just now working on? It feels like a dream, and the story is such a dreamlike thing.

Well. Here are some pictures: a couple of messages from the Bob Dylan Center (Dylan & Santana ’84 that’s me), and the other is a giveaway. My farm, those red orbs, a butter sculpture.

Let’s all write a poem today as a defense against stupidity and hate. Be kind, stay cool.

Of butter sculpture and angels

Tomorrow is our 39th wedding anniversary. We will be going to Springfield to the Illinois State Fair. I believe the this is the Butter Sculpture anniversary, and the Midwest loves a good butter sculpture.

The start of the year is a blur. March 14th we were on the periphery of a tornado, and our house sustained damage (the neighborhood). Lots of hail and wind and rain. Roof, siding, trees (the pine out back the deer slept under!) ruined. We found out we had Bateman and not Batman insurance (yes, we do have --had-- State Farm). We’ve just had the siding done, the roof was finished in July. The trees took a few months to clean up as we had an above-average rainfall the tree guys couldn’t get their equipment in. The shed is still in a holding status. But, but, no heavy structural damage. 

I finished my second math class and graduated from Southwestern Illinois College in May. Woot! And yesterday was the end of the summer semester, and therefore, the first year of the MFA program wrapped up. The highlight of the program is the summer semester, which was in Barcelona from June 28th through July 12th. Seminars, workshops, readings, tours, and heat, so much heat. I left the heat dome of Saint Louis for the heat of Spain.

It feels like we’ve been traveling a lot. Last week we were in Tulsa for Jerry’s birthday -- living on Tulsa Time – it was a bit of a bleed over from my birthday in February because I wanted to go see the Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie Centers; both are worth the trip.

Earlier in the summer, we were in Oregon. A tidy little trip to see my mom (and almost everyone else in the family!). The Bambina and her love flew out; Jerry and I drove (one of my favorite drives is I-80 across Nebraska and Wyoming). We spent the first night in Ogallala. For some reason, I like this little town. I wouldn’t want to live there, but I do have a poem that starts “If the world should end in Ogallala, let me drift on the Platte till I’m free…”.

Anyway, here is a poem I wrote in Barcelona and some more pictures of my year so far.

Dragonflies at Montserrat

On the serrated mountain
above the Llobregat River,
the Black Madonna erases
sin. At the lily pond,
below the cathedral,
the nothingness of frogs,
sinless fish and the bright
day abuzz with angels.

[Montserrat is a spectacularly beautiful Benedictine monk mountain retreat about one-hour northwest of Barcelona by train.

Montserrat Monastery is of significant religious importance and the natural beauty surrounding the monastery is breathtaking.

Montserrat derives from Latin and Catalan, meaning "Serrated Mountain." This name describes the mountain's jagged, saw-toothed appearance, which is characterised by its unique needle-shaped peaks and rocky formations. These formations have been shaped over millions of years by natural erosion processes, creating a dramatic and distinctive landscape.]

The thing with feathers

Blackbirds & cowbirds,
the grackles & jays spend the snowy
morning at the feeders bullying finches
& sparrows. Cardinals aflame around
the fire bush weigh opportunity.
The sweet titmouse couple
only want sunflower
seeds since the peanuts ran out.

They dive into the bare forsythia
as a clutter of starlings
crash land. So loud; so round
with gold leaf & ebony feathers.
Brassy & bossy, their yellow beaks
as sharp as their chatter. They’ve driven
off the wren & no chickadee has been
seen since before the snow.

These birds gather as though I owe
them something & perhaps I do.
I must owe something to the world.
Maybe it is just this: sustenance
in the cold.

Though I doubt it.
 

 

T

 

Happy 2025 (to happiness, to happier, to in lieu of non-happiness)

Love is a new pair of Muck boots. My 19-year-old Bogs have been leaking for a year or two, though they are still good for quick trips in and about the yard. anything too wet (fording streams, walking into caves) soaks your socks. Usually, my boots have a layer of mud from the Playa after I come home. I missed a trip this year. 

The snow we've had was so light that boots were unnecessary. It's nice to have these. I wore them into the yard tonight when I brought the birdfeeders in. It has been rainy here for the past four or five days, and the temperature has ranged from the mid-40s to the mid-50s, night and day. Cooler weather is coming. A shift. And that's not just a metaphor.

Happy New Year, happy blank slate.

A day will come/ when my body will no longer open like a suitcase/ to take myself on a journey where I’ll dream/ of never being found, where I’ll dream of never finding/ what I’ve lost.*

Issac would have been 34 this year, born at 3AM on December 24th. Like his sister, there are a lot of poems that mention, are directed or cover our lives. This is one of my favorites.

Daydream

We share no physical characteristics
aside from the arched foot
inherited like an old pot;
my son mirrors his father like a miniature.
But we are entwined in our abilities
to lose ourselves, when being lost is most unneeded.

My own father was quick to point out this defect
as I lulled myself to stupor at the edge of a stream
or sat too long under stars
until shouts of come home had to find me in the dark.

Hard to tell my son that this gene
which makes him seem to slumber in the classroom
or linger too long over chores
is something to tuck away
until time allows for an all-afternoon laze
of conjured dreams;
a place I will never dim as we sit, silent,
                                            shoulders touching slightly.

* 

Fig of Unfolding

Octavio Quintanilla

Ciudad de México

 

We arrived in Mexico City late, and there were lines of people making their way to the Basilica of Guadalupe (Basilica de Guadalupe). It was December 11, the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. A pilgrimage for many from all over Mexico and the world. The taxi driver asked if we knew of it, and I said a tiny bit. It was already 10 PM and the streets were filled --going the opposite way – but within 40 minutes we were at our Airbnb in the Roma Norte district. We were late arriving; our flight had been delayed from Saint Louis on American Airlines to Dallas and we would have missed the connection. Jerry went to work and got us onto a flight to Houston with a follow-up to Mexico City on United, unfortunately, we lost eleven hours. The American Airlines flight never did leave. But perspective is always necessary with travel, just as we found out about the delay and got to a quiet place to regroup, we saw a man coming off a plane on a stretcher receiving CPR. The paramedics took him away, and shortly after a woman in a wheelchair and two people with luggage followed. Then everyone else de-planed. Witness to a pilgrimage of another sort, people were quietly gathering as we headed to the other airline.
    It was our first time in Mexico City (many trips to Tijuana while in San Diego but never any further) and we enjoyed our visit. A lot of walking, a lot of sitting in the sun and watching the city go by, museum visits (Frida Kahlo sold out until the end of the year, I didn’t research tickets enough!), some wonderful food and good sleep for the most part. There was one night when Club America beat Monterrey in football (soccer) for a three-peat (apparently a first!) and the party in the streets went on until the early morning. The synchronized horn blowing and revving of engines was a good touch. The day after was a Sunday and we spent a quiet late morning visiting nearby parks, a dangerous place as there was a pet adoption event happening, but also a market for pet products. Lots of dogs and some cats (looking so bored with it all!). Temptation.
    Here's an interesting thing we found, there are special admission tickets for a lot of museums. If one is over 60 the tickets are discounted or free. (My very favorite price) And we found a park where only seniors are allowed. What?!? And it is a gorgeous park, full of wide, level paths, lots of benches, statues and fountains. Plus, they have rooms for classes and a kitchen. Jerry was invited to play dominoes, but we were heading back to our neighborhood, so he had to decline.
    Across the street from our lodging was a school we could see from our balcony. One morning the children were practicing a dance move, a few days later a program of some sort was happening in the same area. Adore!