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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.

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

The Far Pond and Beyond

Going to the far pond,
and beyond,
as sunlight spills over rugged hills,
running up a favorite prairie valley,
a favorite prairie alley,
breathing in the peace in this place,
as I move through this time and space,
living aware of the life around me,
in the flower blooms and green grass that surround me,
and I hope as long as I am able,
to choose to roam,
not sit at home,
to go out my door and explore,
the life of natural places,
and human graces,
always looking to go to the far pond,
and beyond.

Alone with the stars

And a rising moon

Holding the night in its glow

Hovering over all below

I can only gaze in wonder

Cool air in my tangled hair

Feeling I can almost touch the sky

My feet on the ground, the universe in my eye

I am both ending and beginning

On a tiny globe in space spinning

Yet, life feels large in this quiet, full of mystery

Standing on generation upon generation of history

Thinking who we are is who we were

In A Still Silence

Out of a dark November night,

Carrying a feeling that something is not right,

I run in chills into the cold hills,

Until I stop at a flat rock and sit with cold wet feet,

But now in my heart sings a song warm and sweet,

Embraced by the wild sense in valleys of frosted grass,

in the cry of geese as they pass,

In the bound of a deer, after we came so near,

In the glint on frozen sumac and bush clover,

in the chatter of sparrows over and over

By a pond’s glimmering, I turn off my simmering,

In the bright warm sunning, where I quit my running,

In the breath of a breeze, in it all, is the wild’s sense of ease,

As the old hills hold me, in a still silence.

Skitters

The sun is bright, yet, gentle,

Its light skitters across leaves on the ground,

Though many remain in the trees,

Still lots of falling left in this Fall,

The warmth of a fire lands on my hand,

The warmth of the sun rests on my cheek,

I stare into the leaves, then into the fire,

I even welcome some smoke,

Let it envelope me until it gets too strong,

The air temperature is so perfect, comfort permeates my body,

My mind relaxes, my heart feeds on the goodness,

I am held in a moment of calm that transcends time and place,

Like I am floating, free of attachments,

Like there is no gravity of life weighing me down,

Where joy is just being alive.

I find myself grateful for land open to the public. Guess I am a public person. I don’t have any private land. Odd concept in a way, private land. Seems arrogant somehow to claim we can own land. Indians did not have that concept. I think I prefer being a public person. I do not feel a need to own land. I do not have a desire to call a piece of land mine. I prefer being on land that is open to all, to share it, to care for it in community.  So here I sit on the public side of the fence. In fact, there is sign on the fence I can see from here that says, private land, to let you know where land stops being public and becomes private. This day dawns a slate gray, a north wind blows, trees on the ridge touch the low lying clouds, beyond the last fence dark grass blankets the hills where I go walking, blooms are gone, the feeling turns raw, silence resounds, reality abounds, gratefulness resides deep within. The sun comes out at times turning the grass to a burning red, but gray dominates the day. Later returning across the top I see the valley home, I know the valley home, this thought comes, I will never know what I did not find, that’s what keeps me looking. One day turns to two, and a great blue glides across a great blue over the great grass called blue in the rising sun. I sit in a nearby wood, a warm fire crackles beside me, leaves fall gently, nudged by a gentle breath of wind, they make a sound like rain falling, its effect is gentle on me, I find myself inclined to sit watching leaves fall one at a time, in groups, or not at all, not much going on here, yet so much I cannot take it in, it merely overwhelms, its simplicity so complex, its presence so profound, its contemplation a delight.  Two days turn to three, with a watery, misty beginning upon the still waters of a lake. I reach a far shore and follow a path in grassy hills to a far pond. Later when returning I find a log and sit under yellow cottonwoods by a yellow willow, with red sumac heads standing above tan grass heads, goldenrods and thistles gone gray and white with seed. The sound of cottonwood sings in the wind, the sun lights leaves into a glow around me, once again gratefulness resides, this is the long longed for Fall.

Sunflower Growing To The Moon

 Floating on time,

Out in October,

Sun slowly sitting down,

Color in the air,

Dreams flying,

Hope in every new seed,

Life breathing,

Sky with no end,

Imagination rising,

Silhouettes at the cusp of night,

Wishing I could climb,

A sunflower growing to the moon.

Too much noise. There is too much noise. I am sitting in the car on a back road near the Bottomland trail at the Tallgrass Preserve. I just walked through a spectacular display of tall grasses and sunflowers. Now, I’m parked on the road just past the bridge that goes over Fox Creek. It is 8:30 am but the sun is already feeling hot, so I drove to this spot in the shade. I had turned on the radio as I got in the car and there was a story on NPR about a civil rights event in the 60s. It was not unimportant but I turned it off and as I did the thought that came to me was, there is too much noise. We are bombarded with the noise of radio and TV, constantly. The only escape is to turn it off. So I did. Now I hear crickets and mosquitoes and birds. I look out the open window of the car and see tree trunks and shade with sunlight on the edges. I need to shut off the noise more often. I feel a wave of relief go through my body. I realize I do not need the endless programming provided on the radio and TV. It never stops. It never ends. One program ends and another begins, interspersed by commercials or appeals for donations to pay for the programming to continue, to keep the noise going. Fortunately, I still have a choice as to whether I turn it on or not. I do not know if the world would be better if there was less noise, but I do know my world is better with less noise.

Well, I’ve driven almost all the way back to town now, but have stopped in the shade along a side road. It is a spot I used to stop when biking out west of town from the trailer park we lived in from 2009 to 2012. There is a patch of woods along a creek.  As I drove here I chose not to turn on the radio, not to turn on the noise. I felt an urge to turn it on, several times. I had to choose to resist the urge. I wonder what that urge is about.  What is it? Is it a habit? Is it a need or a want? I am not sure, but for now the noise is off, the windows open.  I hear crickets again and birds.

Old Brook Trout

Crossing a high alpine meadow on a reckless run,

racing a dark mountain storm to the sun,

fast stepping down a snow melt stream, cold and shiny,

I feel I’m living a dream, in this vast wilderness, I am so tiny,

my heart pulses strong, my soul swells and sings a silent running song,

my spirit sparkles like lightning in a thunder shower, I feel it in each wildflower,

and down in the valley where the snow melt pours out, like tears of joy and grief,

into a clean, dark lake, in its watery home swims an old brook trout,

oblivious to my human emotions, and sentimental notions,

under a now darkening sky, lazily rises for a newly hatched fly.