Again, out in these silent hills in winter. Burning hedge sticks and a bit of prairie grass and willow, smoke rises and dissipates into the gray sky with low clouds. The wind stirs the flames. I feel the heat on my feet. A small fire, but just enough to warm me on a cold January day. I’m thinking ancient times, people of ancient times looking at these same hills I look at now, sitting on this same rock I sit on now. I look up through thorny branches to a whitish gray cloudy sky, smoke from the fire in my eye, an ancient activity, making a fire and I wonder, will there come a time when my time will be considered ancient? Fire dying out now, I’m letting it go out, turns into a small pile of ash among the rocks, as will I, in my time.
Author: wapatangawilds
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Under A Winter’s Sun
Under a winter’s sun,
yet, snowflakes still float, down to earth’s frozen coat,
flakes in flight, dark branches covered in white,
once again snow comes swarming, by a winter’s fire warming,
takes me back in my mind, to another time,
in a winter’s cold, a jay’s cry, white and blue in the sky,
tracks in the snow, only I know,
when I was much younger and fighting hunger,
a heart naïve and tender, or so I remember, finding fear, a tear,
it seems like I was along a winter’s stream, as if in a winter’s dream,
a winter’s memory of when I almost gave up, before I had begun.
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Seven Geese Rise
Seven Geese Rise
Seven geese rise, I lift my eyes,
and watch them fly into a bright blue sky,
then I run, into a rising sun,
down a deer path through trees,
to a bluff with a wonder of a breeze,
and sit,
where the creek makes a curve,
not to think, just observe,
and listen,
as ripples in the sunlight glisten.
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Fallen Leaves
Fallen Leaves
Sitting on a log as one at a time leaves drift down,
Then many fall at once, yellow leaves falling through a blue sky,
They make a sound as they land, kind of a soft crackling,
I walk down to the river and the leaves are floating on the surface,
Many are falling around me as I walk,
Fallen leaves floating on the river, fallen leaves on the log where I sat,
In a wild woodland leaves fall to earth,
We all fall to earth in time
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At A Bend In A Snowy Creek
A Bend In A Snowy Creek
At a bend in a snowy creek,
I stop and ask the question, can we be more?
Up ahead after life’s next bend, after the sign in the road,
beyond my plan to sit by a fire at this trail’s end,
warming my fingers with flames fighting the dampness in the wood,
taking time to sit with the trees catching the sun’s light,
will I answer that question then?
Or will I just sit waiting for the snow to melt,
by a bend in a snowy creek?
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This Place Is Not About Me
This Place Is Not About Me
Snow geese sky
And suddenly sad
Cold beauty
Grandeur
A deep wild
A quiet joy hidden colors me
I am small here
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Trying Not To Think
Trying Not To Think
Sunrise, stark silhouettes,
Gray bark, gray stone,
Dark creek water crossing,
Soil and mud, life and death,
Sun lights the land, the grass,
Yet remain frost and dark hills,
This morning’s headline, line in my head,
Slaughter of the innocents.
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The Ethos of Wild
“We did not think of the great open plains, the beautiful rolling hills, and winding streams with tangled growth, as “wild.” Only to the white man was nature a “wilderness” and only to him was the land “infested” with “wild” animals and “savage” people. To us it was tame.” Chief Luther Standing BearI am looking to be in nature in a way that is not about as Aldo Leopold put it ” capture and carry away” or “the idea of trophy”. But I wonder, can we go into a wild and just be? To a plant or animal a wild is life. Can we be in a wild as a plant or animal? Can it be life to us? Or is just a place we go to capture something and then retreat? It is already my practice to stop thinking as soon as I enter a wild. I try to be there only to observe and listen. I am there to connect to the life around me and to be aware that I am alive. I like to be aware I share with all other living things the soil, the air, the water, the sun and the food it produces. I am aware there is both life and death. I am aware there is both refuge and danger. I will never be a hunter so am not going to extract animal “trophies”, though I do sometimes extract a fish from the wild. My food will continue to come from agriculture which while not wild is still from nature. I do take photos and Leopold includes photography as a form of “capture”, though he does say it is “innocuous” as nature does not “suffer” from the taking of photos. My next challenge is to go into a wild without my camera. I also want to offer a class I would call The Ethos of Wild where all this and more can be discussed and experienced with others while in out in a wild. -
So Am I
I stand in a prairie in scenic hills that melt into the sky,
Touching the tops of tall grasses in September,
As they move in a warm wind,
I listen, to learn what lesson is there,
I feel the life in the grass, in me, in all around me,
I feel the beauty, I feel this place is old, much older than me,
I know it will still be here long after I am gone,
It will be here alive when I am dead,
I am connected to it, part of it, part of something so much bigger than myself,
I realize this place is not about me,
It has a life of its own, which I can choose to be part of or to destroy,
It is earth and sky,
And then I hear and understand its lesson…so am I.
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All The High Hills, All The Low Valleys
High Hills, Low Valleys
Been to all the high hills
Down all the low valleys
Out of a deep wood
Onto soft, rolling paths
Deep through prairie grass
Wide open and free
Where you can see as far as you want to see
Following streams, chasing dreams
On the run, in a rising sun
Or sometimes stumbling in a drifting fog
Looking for a hidden spot
Breathing in life
While I can
Wapatanga Wilds 