Author: wapatangawilds

Sitting in the mountains all alone except for a lizard camouflaged on the lichen on the rocks. A gap of space lies between me and the rugged rocks beyond, slopes steep, covered in trees, fir and spruce, alone in the mountains rugged, challenging, daunting to think of going down into that deep valley and up the other side, hard to imagine.  I’m sure there’s a trail and I will try it eventually but not today. Today I sit, I marvel at the wonder in the shade, the mountain hiding me from the sun which is intense, it cannot reach me here, at least not yet.  I’m getting the lizard stare, its tail looks like the pine needle just behind it, it curves right into the needle, the same color, the back of the lizard is like the lichen, it is poised between two boulders, not moving, it just stares, lizard stare in the mountain air.

The wind comes over the hills under a gray sky moving through the grass still dressed in its winter tans though Spring has arrived, the ground is dry and waits for a rain. The wind moves through me as well, stirs something in my spirit, something deep, something whole. I do not think, just observe and listen. I lean back against a slab of limestone that stands upright on the prairie like a tombstone, as I sit on the ground, connected to the earth. The earth here rolls with soft hills and valleys with folds and layers. Hills are tucked behind hills. The feeling it gives is gentle, it nurtures the mind, it relaxes the body, it is welcoming, it beckons me into a sense of belonging. The sun shines briefly through a break in the clouds lighting up the grass, then as quickly as it comes, it is gone. The gray returns, the wind moves through the grass, through me. I am content just to sit.

A Silent Space In A Wood

I follow a path trodden flat by the sharp hooves of deer,

dark and thorny branches that sometimes scrape, come very near,

new leaves on the trees, my body twists and sways along the path as I squeeze,

down this wild trail that leads through a last brambly branch,

grabbing on and through cloth, scratching skin,

with a last tug I walk free into a clearing and feel the wind,

the clearing is small with grass and brush, I slow down on the path, no urgency, no rush,

I am here to observe and listen, among dewy leaves that shine and glisten,

I lie back in the grass and feel the good, in a silent space in a wood.

Walking in a prairie wild, my mood as the day, mild,

Wind at my back, colors with the wind, ebb and flow,

In the grasses waving on the hillside and the water’s surface on the pond below,

The sun over my shoulder hazy, invites me to just be lazy,

Sitting on a seat of soft grass and earth,

Still and silent, caressed by nature’s touch in this wild’s berth,

The stems of grass that stand swaying above my head,

last year’s growth, are all dead,

Yet, as I stare, with a growing sense of wonder I become aware,

That in these prairie grounds, under this blue sky,

In the roots and crowns, life abounds,

Aware I am alive, connected to it all as I sit by this pond,

The life in me, in the ground, in the water, a prairie wild’s bond.

Two Posts

Two posts, wooden, below a hill, nearly hidden from view in tall grass,

Almost just walked on past, almost gave them a pass,

But they stopped me and I sat down on the edge of a dry gulch,

By the crooked and twisted branches of a fallen dead tree,

And I looked at those two old wooden posts, standing there,

Bringing to my mind images like prairie ghosts,

Of people of old in these lands building a fence, a gate, with young or weathered hands,

Digging in this dirt, through this chert,

Can’t see faces, just glimpses of forms, gray in my mind,

Working in the wind, building a life, in the past, all that’s left now is traces,

Just two posts standing at the bottom of a hill, standing still.

Let The Wind Keep Blowing

There is wonder and fear up here, up high, where the mountains touch the sky,

where the summer wind still has a chill,

where the beaver dams I carefully cross and the beaver ponds I fish, are all I could wish,

the waters’ cold tries to tell me I’m old,

and that part of me thinks of being down on the dry trail, where, there is less chance to fail,

I hear the fear, I know it could keep growing, so I embrace the wonder and keep on going,

let the wind keep blowing.

Timeless Calling

I sit in a wild, life all around me and sound.

I tumble into a timeless calling like a leaf falling
end over end, past where my time would bend
like the tree that bends over the path,
as I fall into a kind of timeless math.

This wild it seems is a place void of the pace
that dictates my every day, in here, in this wild,
it has somehow slipped away
and I continue falling into a timeless calling
feeling that what is here, in this wild,
in the leaf, in the ground, in the air, in the birds, in the tree,
is more than I can see, is more than me, yet, within me.

A last leaf freshly fallen from a sycamore,

lies on the ground in the woods in the morning,

by a river with cottonwood and hickory,

my sleeves catch on greenbriar,

my fingers feel cold,

dead branches break under my feet,

I’m somewhere between real and dreams,

walking where I am, waiting for where I want to be,

content with discontent for the time,

embraced by a wintery wild,

in the woods with warmth in my heart.

Away,

To where I have the world all to myself,

With a wind of grace and a sun of gold,

Where grass flows and the creek glows

Where my spirit can climb,

And fleeting moments turn into time.

Little fire in the hills, February chills,

lying on the ground, looking at little flames,

listening to the sound,

the sun from where I lie already low in the sky,

seems to hover above my cover,

behind a hedge of wild plum,

geese fly over heading for the lake,

I don’t know where they are coming from,

my mood is mellowed by sun’s light in the grass,

feels to me like a season has begun to pass,

only the slightest breeze stirs,

the life in the prairie under my belly purrs,

at age sixty-two I wonder when I will get old,

as the little fire dies and I feel the cold,

I leave my little fire and walk up a hill,

I could say my winter season has begun, but today,

I walk the hills, still.