Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Cardomon-The Future
She was old for her tribe, in her forties at least—she had long since abandoned the egoism of enumerating her years. The trials of mountain life and the rigors of her discipline had been harsh on her body. Her hair was white, her flesh was brown, she was lined with creases and she walked with a distinct limp in her right leg. Nonetheless her pace was strong and steady and her eyes were clear. Certainly she was ready to go to Cardomon but Cardomon, it seemed, was not ready for her yet.
Not that she wanted to leave the flesh, still, the situation granted her the luxury of a little detachment. It was only her discipline that kept her focussed enough on the here and now to avoid a fatal misstep as she scrambled across the rugged foothill country.
It was a poor season to travel this country, hot, dusty and dry. Her path led across the lower courses of numerous small dry creekbeds that dissected a low plateau. Again and again she descended from the thinly wooded heights to the dense riparian forests in the canyon bottoms and then climbed back to the heights. The elevation change averaged about two hundred feet—it was just enough of a climb to make her feel it and topping the interfluves was a delirious rush as her breath caught up with her pace and she would run the downslopes with a great leaping stride until she came skittering to a halt on the gravel bottoms. Every third or fifth canyon still held a sheltered pool of water in its bottom and this would be a cue for an extended break—she was in no hurry. She would throw her pack to the ground, take out a ladle and draw herself a long drink. Then she would set her pack up against a shady bank, sit back against it and kick off her sandals; out would come her pipe and she would quietly smoke and relax. If the mood was right she would play a small wooden flute—she liked to imitate the birds. Sometimes her eyes would close and she would doze for a while.
Still she kept a good pace; by sunset she had covered fifteen miles and, with three rising moons, she kept on into the early hours of the night—a full twenty miles had passed before she finally stopped. She made no fire but simply unrolled a thin blanket to sleep under the stars. She was not hungry for she had been gathering and eating roots, nuts and fruits for much of the day’s hike. It was still warm in the morning when she rose in the gray before dawn. She continued her trek until she came to another pool. Wading into the knee-deep water she crossed to an overhanging bank. Reaching into the cavity beneath the bank her skilled hands found the fish she knew must shelter there. With a firm grasp she grabbed the fish and pulled it from the water. She slapped its flopping body against the overhanging rock and the fish was still. Within minutes she had a fire going and the fish was cooking on the end of a stick. An hour later she was cleaned up and on the trail again.
Not that she wanted to leave the flesh, still, the situation granted her the luxury of a little detachment. It was only her discipline that kept her focussed enough on the here and now to avoid a fatal misstep as she scrambled across the rugged foothill country.
It was a poor season to travel this country, hot, dusty and dry. Her path led across the lower courses of numerous small dry creekbeds that dissected a low plateau. Again and again she descended from the thinly wooded heights to the dense riparian forests in the canyon bottoms and then climbed back to the heights. The elevation change averaged about two hundred feet—it was just enough of a climb to make her feel it and topping the interfluves was a delirious rush as her breath caught up with her pace and she would run the downslopes with a great leaping stride until she came skittering to a halt on the gravel bottoms. Every third or fifth canyon still held a sheltered pool of water in its bottom and this would be a cue for an extended break—she was in no hurry. She would throw her pack to the ground, take out a ladle and draw herself a long drink. Then she would set her pack up against a shady bank, sit back against it and kick off her sandals; out would come her pipe and she would quietly smoke and relax. If the mood was right she would play a small wooden flute—she liked to imitate the birds. Sometimes her eyes would close and she would doze for a while.
Still she kept a good pace; by sunset she had covered fifteen miles and, with three rising moons, she kept on into the early hours of the night—a full twenty miles had passed before she finally stopped. She made no fire but simply unrolled a thin blanket to sleep under the stars. She was not hungry for she had been gathering and eating roots, nuts and fruits for much of the day’s hike. It was still warm in the morning when she rose in the gray before dawn. She continued her trek until she came to another pool. Wading into the knee-deep water she crossed to an overhanging bank. Reaching into the cavity beneath the bank her skilled hands found the fish she knew must shelter there. With a firm grasp she grabbed the fish and pulled it from the water. She slapped its flopping body against the overhanging rock and the fish was still. Within minutes she had a fire going and the fish was cooking on the end of a stick. An hour later she was cleaned up and on the trail again.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
One Hundred Ten in the Shade
When it’s a hundred-ten degrees
in the shade, hummingbirds perch on the fence in the spray at the edge of the
sprinkler, panting.
A fresh picked
strawberry does for your mouth what a good orgasm does somewhere else.
Bean vines grow fast
enough to make you hear a giant shout “Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum!”
When it’s a hundred-ten
degrees in the shade, honeybees swarm around the leaky garden faucet
.
A frozen water bottle
thaws before you drink it.
A light breeze feels
like a blow dryer.
When it’s a hundred-ten
degrees in the shade, you question the sanity of people who don’t believe in global warming.
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