Author: wapatangawilds

A couple years ago I was at Allegawaho Kaw Nation Park near Council Grove, Kansas with my wife Lisa and a Kaw elder named Curtis and a few other friends.  We were standing as a group on the edge of a flat field of restored tallgrass prairie full of prairie grasses and wildflowers about head high. As is my habit, I wandered off into the field to be in the prairie and take photos of grasses, flowers or and insects. There was no path, no trail, just thick prairie. It is also my habit to never use sprays to protect myself from insects such as ticks or mosquitoes.  While I was out wandering, Lisa asked Curtis why can Glenn do that kind of walking in wild places with no protection against insect bites.  Later she told me his answer and the answer was, because Glenn is a friend.  I liked that answer.  I had  not thought about it that way, but I liked the idea of it.

So, I was intrigued by a teaching I read recently in a book entitled What I’ve Always Known by Tom Harmon.  Tom describes a time he was visiting with an Indian elder in a remote wild area.  It was the Indian elder said that intrigued me:  “There’s a war going on. A war against the earth, against mother earth. I wonder whose side you are on? Ever since your people come here. But now, everybody in on it. Not many left to be on the earth’s side. Just the few. You either on the earth’s side, or you not. One or the other.  If you are, everything in the world knows it, eh? Every animal, every tree, they know it. And they show themself to you. Open things to you, watch over you, make things happen for you. Whisper in your ear so you feel in your heart what to do. But if not on earth’s side, why, the earth don’t even know you here. Don’t even see you, feel your steps, know you breathin’.   Just like you don’t mean nothin’ to her, ain’t it? “

I think you can see why his teaching intrigued me, especially considering the insects I choose not to spray to protect myself from, are animals.  After reading this teaching my thoughts turned to my backyard where I have planted native grasses and wildflowers and added small pools of water creating a wildlife habitat.  I wander it often, explore it, sit in it.  I wrote down my thoughts and here is what they were: This yard, in this yard, what am I to learn, what am I to see, who am I to know? Who is to know me? Who am I to be? When I walk its paths, past grasses and flowers, when I sit in its shade, and mosquitoes hover, what are they saying? The insects come to the blooms. The rabbits, mice and birds hide in the cover of the plants. They come here to live and I live here too.  Then when I leave my yard to go to a wild and I wander and I sit, I ask myself, what am I there for? What am I looking for? Do I see it? Am I welcome? Whose side am I on?

Stars shine overhead

In the distance lightning flashes

But can’t hear the thunder

Only bullfrogs and peepers singing their night songs

Street lamps push against the dark, in the park

Half past three a.m.

Running on ground soft from rain three days ago,

Grass is thick and soft and a bit wet

Air is warm and sticky like sweat

Hills lift me up and walk me down

Past ponds and pines

Through prairie grass and milkweed shoots

I am all alone

But home is not so far away

In between night and day

Waiting For The Night To Pass

Waiting out the night, listening to the sound of wind blowing

As a full moon sits over snowcapped peaks in predawn glowing

Encountering the elegance of silence, the poise of nature’s solitude

Its gentle noise, sunlight reaches out, touching only the highest clouds

Shaking off nights’ darkly shrouds, earth spinning in space, turning me to face the sun

Making it appear to rise, night’s grip dies, I listen and observe

My gaze follows the mountains curve, sun now touching ridge tops steep

I breathe deep, standing along a mountain lakes’ edges and sedges

Walking now through soft meadow grass, no longer waiting, for night to pass

Lone goose flying,

low, honking, in blue sky, in rising sun, sliver moon soon fading,

owl hooting, coyotes yipping, welcome voices in the silent solitude,

 revealing within a natural softening gratitude,

waking on the ground from sleep, after a night so dark, so deep,

with crisp air nipping, and campfire warm and crackling,

in this place, in this natural sacred space,

I resolve to be unbound by a “yes… but!” constraint, not to faint,

with a fire still burning in my heart, to do my simple part,

live my life to death still trying, even if I am a

lone goose flying.

There is a Redtailed hawk that frequents the fields behind where I live, and most often perches in a Cottonwood tree.  The photo posted here is of that hawk in that cottonwood. I have come to refer to this hawk as my cottonwood hawk.  I think of it as I wander in the Flint Hills and it inspired these words. I share them today, for my Dad, who is here visiting with me.

Fly, my cottonwood hawk, fly

High above bird nest in sunflower stalk

Above coyotes sleeping in deep prairie grass, that stir and run as I pass

Rise on a south wind wings twirling, over my little fire, flame swirling

above owl roosting in dead tree, fly, my cottonwood hawk, fly free

Soar into cold east wind, sound your cry over tall bur oak

Over whitetail deer hiding near, fly into flake filled air

Over fresh fallen snow, see me walking there below

Creature bound to earth, you a creature of the sky from birth

Take me with you when you depart, even if only in my heart

Fly, my cottonwood hawk, fly

Homewoods

I look behind, I see myself, a boy of fifteen, on a forest rise, just to sit, not thinking, there, just to be there, all alone, in silence, yet connected to the life around him, and within, soft, at peace, at home, in his homewoods. I see a boy grow up, as woodland streams, and young dreams flow together, between hills and wills, curving, swerving, shaping. He follows a dream that leads away, far, far away from home to where the wildebeest and buffalo roam, as leaves turn green, leaves turn brown and fall to the ground, and the world turns round and round. Miles and smiles and years go by, and fear that brought tears, while this stand of trees has stood, ever changing, yet remaining in this place til one day I return and see a boy who has grown til he has gotten to be sixty. And as I return to these homewoods they seem to ask, how did it go out there? Did your dream survive? Is it still alive? Did you end the hunger of children far from here?

And then simply they say, we are still here, here is where we stay, while you are away.

Glenn Thomas Fell

June 25, 2015

Bison In The Light

Bison in the light, as day turns into night

And the silent solitude of prairie hills, that soothes my human ills

Descends, bringing here a peace on earth, near the time when so many celebrate a divine birth

And I take a seat on high ground, in brown prairie grass and look all around

The sky splattered with graying cloud, valleys fading away into evening’s falling shroud

Bison now just small dark dots … wounded lives find healing in such spots

I feel my soul touching something, something spirit, something whole

A tear wells up, but don’t quite flow, a joys swells up, I am humbled to know

Pardon me if I am wrong, cuz this feeling is just oh so strong

But I think I am simply feeling life, uncontaminated by man-made strife

December Fire

December fire,

Just before dawn, throws warmth my way,

Burning wood crackles, spark and ash fly,

Orange and blue, the fire’s hue,

Smoke twisting, drifting, shifting,

Morning arrives, pink in the sky,

December fires burns a hole in time,

Creates a hidden space, to sit,

Away from the rushing race of work and mind,

A stop spot to savor my journey,

Aware life is all around and in me.

It is winter break from teaching school. An annual season for me to have time to sit by a fire in my backyard, on a week day, as the world around me rushes on with work and life.  It is a privilege I have to be able to just observe and listen in nature. It is healthy.  It is unfortunate more are not afforded this privilege, perhaps it should be a right. Life is a journey diminished  when rushed. Life is best lived savored.

Waiting For Night To Pass

Waiting out night, wind blowing,

moon sits over pines in predawn glow,

elegance of silence, poise of solitude, gentle noise,

sunlight touching highest clouds,

shaking off nights’ dark, earth spins in space,

turning me to face the sun’s rise,

night’s grip dies, my gaze follows mountain curves,

sun touching ridge tops steep, I breathe deep,

standing at mountain lakes’ edge,

walking in soft meadow grass, no longer waiting for night to pass.

Echo Lake, Colorado

June, 2015