Now it's dusk

 

This morning, high up in the lonely pine, finches pretending to be pine cones. I love how they go right to the top and then shuffle down blending and shifting colors. I also appreciate that they stayed while I went back into the house to get my camera.

I have a begonia plant that I’ve had for two years, I originally bought two hanging baskets and then have been cutting the plant back, repotting and at times propagating. Right now, it’s under a tree near our bedroom where it gets sun and lots of shade and water when it rains. It is also the only place I’ve seen this beauty.

Behind the house I did a quick study of the flower bed, the well picked over sunflowers and the cosmos both blooming and producing seeds – I’ve already saved a big bag full of seeds for next year. While there I was buzzed by the hummingbirds (well known jerks) and then saw the designated Monarch. I notice one a day.

But now it’s dusk, still very warm out, the cicadas are here singing their loud ‘hey baby, hey baby’ song. A small rabbit is munching clover, one of the kids who lives at the first house on the cul-de-sac is spinning around in the street, he’s probably nine, the kind of thing you should be doing on a Friday night in September. Lazy turns, arms out spinning. Over the trees the sound of a band – maybe football tonight at the local high school. My neighbors are out with their son playing, he has a little track for his scooting trike. He’s two and a half now, it’s been really fun watching him grow. The moon is almost above the trees.

I water my tomatoes and geraniums. No rain in the forecast until Monday or Tuesday.

Last night I read poems for First Draft Writer’s Series out of Pendleton. Here’s a poem I read that is full of wonder and light, kind of like what is happening outside right now.

Moonrise

horse face, horse lore in craters,
horses asleep along the shore of the Sea
of Tranquility. Imagine this:

Horses under moonlight
turning into the yard and you wake
to the shiver of the great beasts
teasing and tearing and pulling
the fine grasses of the lawn; their bulk
beneath the window causes the old
house to shudder. They sample
the globe headed peony, snorting
at the cat on the porch who will not
leave her post as long as these shadows
billow. They taste the lilac, the pansy,
the dainty faces of the primrose before
trimming all the willows to horse high lengths

and then they discover the apple tree
its small gems still ripening and then corn,
though fenced in it is still horse neck
accessible. And you have wandered
with them, but room to room until you stand
now at the kitchen window, laughing.
These night mares yours for the taking.

You slip out of the house,
talk softly to them and they turn, snort welcome
and warning but allow you close. Their scent
is sweeter than the first cut hay, their odor
honest and for a moment you are high
on sweat and dust. Like permission you offer
your outstretched palm, salty and damp.
With a bow you place you face near them
blow into their great nostrils and take their
breath into your own lungs. Now a part
of the creature, you pull up onto the shortest
animal, adjust and grab the mane.

As though this was part of a mission, they move
out of the yard, cross the road and enter
your neighbor’s wheat field. We all grab stalks
chewing the green heads as we walk toward
the river. The night sky is full of stars pushing
down, touching the backs of the horses, the top
of your head. At the river we meet deer, elk
and owls who sense you and hold their talk.
You are not horse, you are not wild, your bit
of moondust has forgotten this magic. When
your companions’ step into the water to drink
it is easy to slide off into the coolness, float
away to the far bank. When you turn all heads
are watching you; none cross to bring you back.

Then the moonrises higher, the water shimmers pewter
the horses and deer and elk all turn silver
and the owl with one long cry swoops past
and disappears into the stars. Shivering you
slide back into the water and all the animals
retreat leaving you alone to wander back toward
the outline of the barns, your house, the moon
now following along, but dragging its feet.