Saturday, December 13, 2008

Some kind of joy


Deer Tracks

Beautiful, sobbing
high-geared fucking
and then to lie silently
like deer tracks in the
freshly-fallen snow beside
the one you love.
That's all.

--Richard Brautigan
http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/10544-Richard-Brautigan-Deer-Tracks

No snow here as of yet. The news people crack me up. They already have the “arctic blast” 2008 graphic ready and flashing with lots of pretty colors. The sanding crews are on standby. Only the news people get so excited that they just now remembered that the storm first has to slide across the Pacific, gather more moisture, and most likely warm up. A tickle in the ribs instead of on the toes and funny things happen to those beastly snowstorms around here. Like maybe it could rain instead of snow and ice. The blast could come, of course, but at the moment it is just very, very wet.

It’s raining like a son-of-a-mule right now, so the hound and I are out in the garden cottage, where the rain is beautiful on the cedar roof. We are sharing a mug of hot red wine (not really, it’s all mine, but I’d share if I could). We can see our breath. The lantern is lit, but I didn’t bother with the heater. I like the chill on my cheeks.

The sky is a thick monotone mat.  When we went out today for a nice, wet hike, I purposefully looked down and around instead of up. I need to look down more often. We found a geo-cache behind a big rock. (With a little help from the orienteer in the group). Inside there was a troll and a comb and a bunch of other trinkets. We checked our pockets and could only find one thing to contribute – a gum wrapper. “At least it’s shiny,” someone said. We watched feather-propelled duck take off across the green-grey water of the lake. The maidenhair ferns with their black licorice veins dripped along the trail. Foamy white water spilled in and out of basalt potholes along the creek, racing to the sea, where the arctic blast is getting a good toe tickle.

I took a photo at the lakeshore with my cell phone. The rope swayed gently in the wind. Long lost summer. I could practically hear the laughter and feel the splashing as we walked by. Freedom. Sun on damp skin. Abandon.

We hiked for four miles or so – through the dryad forest of gnarled oaks and iron-tinted rocks situated high above a canyon – then down, down into the cedars to a steel and wood bridge.We took a slightly different route home where we came upon the tree rope. I heard the laughter, snapped a photo, and felt some kind of joy for that cold, frayed rope being there, patiently waiting.

That’s all. 

3 comments:

Craig Sorensen said...

Lovely images.

I felt like I was sitting there with you and the hound.

Neve Black said...

Really nice job describing.

I think your garden shed has become one of my favorite new places. :-)

Kirsten Monroe said...

Hello! Yeah, the shed is a good place to write -- one of the few places I can have a thought to myself and have a computer on at the sam time around here! You'd laugh though, it's the tiniest little thing, but it looks just like a cabin. I should post a picture of it.

Hey -- real snow! Finally!