self-portrait

sunday stick burn

i picked up and burned sticks all day long. it was a perfect perfect day. crisp. colorful. swirling leaves, woodpeckers hammering away at old snags, grasshoppers hopping and rubbing their legs together for that sweet late summer sound extending into fall. I had to wear a jacket! the hens don't like hanging out at the fire; i miss the company of my soulful Eva dog. I wasn't alone though.

Glazed over and not really looking for or at anything a face materialized. a doe. we looked at each other for at least two minutes, like playing the statue game with a far better player. she couldn't smell me for the smoke from the fire. finally the face disappeared to be followed by 7 small deer springing across the upper meadow and up through the woodlot to the west. all the creatures seem to follow this same path. their giant floppy tails seemed phosphorescent through the feathery white pines. they were so quiet, if i hadn't been looking i would have never known they passed. i waited for the first star to pierce the sky, as is my custom, and headed in toward a glowing pumpkin of a home. i heard the owl. his voice reverbs off the mountain and he sounds like he is in no particular place but all around me. like the voices that rise up from the shoals of the creek. once inside i cooked some cornbread for the hens and we all watched bull riding together. all five billion satellite channels are back now that the leaves have fallen. just in time for the professional bull riding finals, where Little Yellow Jacket will appear for the last time before retiring. did i already say this was the perfect day?

beauty came down