Tailwind whips a leeward vortex
My frame obstructs the flow
Marching into the dust devil’s mouth
all parchment crackle and bitterness
I trod on its intentions
its ill and unsavory plots
I continue my patrol
Category Archives: paying attention
Tailwind whips a leeward vortex
spaces between the chords strummed
and cords of a fishing net
windows of pause, escape, reload,
permeable and flexible
perspiring voids on the boundary of
confinement, capture, rescue
whispering mouths spanning the distance
between vibrating tendons
breathing strands of web
holding a bounty in suspense
We loaded the car at 8:30 and headed toward the valley. We formed a mini caravan of two cars, driving down state highways, me in front trying to time the lights so I wouldn’t lose my parents behind me. My two were in the backseat, my daughter playing the roll of emcee for MadLibs.
We rolled into the small Shenandoah town around 11:15. Driving down the narrow cemetery paths, my father, now in front, stopped and stepped out. Dad helped Mom out, who walks with the help of a cane.
My kids quickly found the stone indicating where my grandfather and grandmother are burried. They never knew them, having passed well before I was married. I never knew my grandfather, and my grandmother was a caricature of someone from my childhood. Here, my mom began to recall, aloud, bits of her own childhood, and the relationships between the names on the various markers.
A cousin arrived, one who lives nearby. Her father was my mom’s brother, and she was here to bury some of his ashes next to his parents. A small, square hole had been prepared. Polite and fun conversation returned to relationships and memories. This church and that cabin.
My great grandmother was born in a cabin that is now maintained by the PATC and rented to vacationers. This mountain and that road all had names that were shared by branches on my family tree.
We drove about ten miles up the road, where we found my great grandparents graves in a small churchyard. Casual conversations with a few people coming from the service turned into a half hour of connections and hazy memories.
My kids were getting antsy, and so was I. After our goodbyes, my parents left on their return to the midwest. I drove my kids to show them a piece of land I had been interested in buying. After a long winding ascent up a gravel road, we found the property, which was as I had remembered: more like the side of a mountain than a residential site, a steep and tree covered 5 acre plot: beautiful, but not able to be built on, even for a small cabin.
We went to the nearby town and found a little river rafting outfit, and spent the next hour floating and laughing our way down the river.
On the way home, after ice cream and drying off, we took a scenic route through the hills. We saw a few deer, some goat farms, and Cooter’s Dukes of Hazard annual festival. There must have been 300 orange cars parked there.
Arriving home, we were exhausted and happy. Hot dogs on the grill and then to bed, quickly snoozing before the sun had fully set.
Heat chokes the region. My lawn is essentially a field of brown weeds, as I cannot justify watering it, save to keep my property value up. I mow it, and the relative eveness keeps it presentable.
A ritual and sweaty lunch walk. An amble with my dog down near the stream along the biking trail. This weekend, a difficult ascent up a Blue Ridge mountain peak. Outside, feeling alive in the push through the low haze of late July.
The sun fuels me, recharging a body that is frequently tired, exhausted, and fatigued. It bookends my days in the summer, when the hours of sunlight are favorable and long. Going to bed just after sunset and rising as the sky starts to lighten has me, on most days, missing out on the darkness of night outside. Waking up during the night, my room has been starkly transformed to blue and grey. I often step out onto my deck.
Around my home, night isn’t silent, but rather, a noisy orchestra of foxes, birds, cicadas, crickets, and cats. The heat remains, though tempered and dulled, while inside, a ceiling fan provides a measure of relief as I return. Night noises penetrate the walls. Outside my room, the nocturnal respite from blazing sunshine has the wildlife riled to a peak summer frenzy, it appears.
My dog stirs when he senses I am awake, sitting up or walking over the edge of the bed to pant in my face, as if to let me know he’s also ready for some night air. On nights when I opt to stay in bed, I’ll pat his head and roll over. Moments after ignoring him, he’ll shuffle off, turn, and set himself down hard, expelling a “harumph”. Minutes later, his breathing turns to snoring.
I’ll roll and contort, unable to sleep without a sheet, but alternatively sweating beneath it. Eventually, sounds will melt into dreams, warmth will transform to slumber.
Sun storm, horses pounding
through silver boulders,
lowering their heads to
snort vaporous spouts,
mist laminating their blazes,
a trailing cyclone of clouds
braiding their tails,
they land at speed,
full gallop through the lifeless
shadows of March.
Ancient art in arched
Stones, hewn, stacked
Laboriously and slowly
The moment of truth
Falsework removed, shores
Arch settles, key locks
Feet, hooves, and barrow
Move bank to bank
Implicit faith in achitecture’s
Reposted from 2015