December 4
Morning fog is uncommon here
Yet it lifts up in blankets
Predawn is white with rosy edges
The gravel sea wet with rain
The tangle of brush is unkempt hair
on the head of the Colorado River
These Aha Macaves would wake up
and crawl out of their winter houses
Wipe the dry cold silt from skin
and squint at the same light
someone had to be making fires
to gather around and warm
12/5
Surreal dreams make up a night flight
Then loose themselves from memory
Some hold on better than I
Perhaps it is a selective decision
Although the most ardent do stick
Seven hours of sleep seems ok
A lone bird calls—first of morn
Plaintive, almost forlorn—asking
why is it so damned cold?
Another answers—so that’s it
They’re having a conversation
Silence again-except for my coffee
gulps and tap tap of the keyboard
Day grows wider now in the bush
And the first bird joins the feeder
Not sure what it is by the shape
And then it is gone
One should not take offense when
birds choose not to take full advantage
of a feeding opportunity
Have to say though—it does make
me wonder if my choice of seed lacks
Just now there are two partaking
which has cheered me considerably
Journal 10—quite a journey of words
from the first so long before
Beginning when Ericka lived in
California and the divorce started
what was that—2003? Painful
And you waded through it to
Christmas with David in Mazatlan
All somewhat sad and long
though it is just the story—not you
The false self—so don’t wallow in events
Observe and meditate as you originally
planned to do anyway
and greet the day with gladness
12/6
Birds lined up to the feeder as at a ticket counter
Pecking order, waiting for the big one to have its fill
Then they all scatter like leaves in the wind
And the streaked morning clouds cross a gessoed canvas
of morning not quite ready to unleash certain light
It is good to wait during these times and watch change
Builds character to not hurry the time pushing slowly
A bird is back—its silhouette not quite revealing species
At least not to haphazard naturalists waiting to become
The next in line is a cardinal, he notes though
You win some you lose some
More birds move from branch to feeder—hesitant, recalcitrant
Waiting to see if its actually a trap and they lose the game
Eat the seeds little ones—for it is cold, even in this desert
The night grips mesquite like a noose and coyotes yip complaints
Makes me wonder how our ancestors ever lived outdoors
12/14 28°
Solstice holds beautiful darkness
letting light fold in slowly, gingerly
Solstice covets its black tangle
Holding the trees and rivers in
their ribboned muted shrouds
If the sky grows light
it does so with permission
of an austere Solstice
willing to relinquish its grip
for a weakened sun
limping low across a horizon
Like an old man, the sun sits
unable to find its stance
High where it once ruled hours
Now letting the glow of day begin
softly behind branches reaching
while coyotes lament the cold
invited into their tangled brush
12/18 28 degrees
The turtle has its limits for heat
right now it complains at mid-60’s
the oil heater turned full on
Coffee hot enough as dawn considers
The blackness of brush at 7 am is startling
Impenetrable as the small mammals who slide through
and yet this barricade weakens by minutes
with the first tentative chirps and starts
of birds heated by small furnaces stoked
to 106 degrees-thank god in this cold
No one told them about winter solstice
Their wire bones already knew
The banality of evil
1/15
Smooth and light morning
Tones for an empty mind
Weary from sleep
laden with covers
Blankets pressed to
keep the cold at bay
A bird feeder bereft
of birds who gave up
on seeds that left
and now waits
to be refound
The darkest blue of sky is reserved for predawn
Not the black of midnight approaching winter
or with a rush of shooting star August
This is the pure ink of a day not yet made
Anticipated, still stealing the ink, sometime soon
to drain down the circle of an orange sun
This is a time before the birds dare to feed
Too many shadows in the blackened thicket
Rustling noise of the predator slipping through
Silence in sky suggesting the omen of first-light
and swift talons of the merciless falcon
Let the prolific tendril branches criss-cross
Silent winter earth show its river silt
First bird mark a shadowed path of flight
Mesquite turn hardened branches to east
And all the land exalt in the singular timeless dawn
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