Shameful Summer

What!
Summer has snuck in
Hiding under
The pretense
Of Spring.
Forcing
Bossing
Taking advantage.
Shame.

Yes Deer

Cousins,
What a pleasure to spend Memorial Day weekend in the mountains of Appalachia.  It is dry and one risks wildfires if you burn a campfire or trash, but the woods are a million shades of green and full of life.  At night, as I lay in bed with windows wide open the sounds of the nocturnal animals can be heard throughout the night, birds call, occasionally a coyote sings love songs to a moon not nearly full and one lone bobwhite calls sadly, wanting a response but never hearing one.  After several years of work, my little cabin now has electric and water... the water is still not into the house, but a pump works and brings water to an outside faucet.

As we drove through the hills we saw deer, turkey, coon, turtles and so very many birds or all varieties.  At one point, a deer came up a ravine at full speed, most likely being chased by a coyote or wild dog and leapt high as it ran to jump a tall fence on the side of the road I traveled.  It soared over the fence easily and landed in the middle of the gravel road before it made another bound and leapt off the road into the weeds on the other side.

At another point we drove slowly along a road and saw a deer stop momentarily in the middle of the road, look at us and then jump to the side, up a very small bank.  In the ditch we saw its fawn, only days old as it struggled up the bank, only 18 inches high but a major barrier for awkward legs not yet able to run and leap.  We sat and grinned as it made its way up that bank.  I could not take my eyes off it and sat for so very long watching the Mama wait and the fawn stumble along till it joined her.

How blessed I am to have a place in the woods, high in the mountains of Appalachia, along a ridge covered with oak, hickory, sassafras and sourwood.  How blessed I am to be steward over this small piece of home.

To Ride A Bike

Wish I was a boy once more
With a big ol' red bike
Sittin' high top of a hill
Lookin' down a long
Dirt road goin' down
An' up again a time or two
So I could coast down
Then' pedal hard to get to the top
Of the next small hill
Ridin' an' coastin'
All the way
To the bottom
Watchin' the trees fly by
Feelin' the wind pushin' at me.

Storm Risin'

The thunderheads had threatened
Near all day long.
Grumblin' an' carryin' on over the ridge
For ever so long,
Cursin' an' spittin' at the hills
Barkin' down the hollers.

Finally the storm broke loose
Terrible rain,
Horrible storm beatin' life down.
Washin' an' scrubbin'
Like a spinster aunt who never even
Washed a baby child.

Those in the hills, kith and kin
Bird an' beast
Could hardly take a breath.
Like drownin'
Hard to hear or see through the rain
Time to hunker down.

Storm finally slows and dies
Wasted an' worn.
First out an old brammer bull
Fearin' nothin
Wanders to an ol' hickory fence post
Leans hard.

A coon, 'bout drowned crawls top a log
Hair punked up
Lookin' all wild an hassled by the rain
Birds wake, sing
Life moves on quickly, merrily
After the storm.

Survey Round Home

A spring visit up to the top of the highest mountain near home is just not enough.
 Standing at the peak of the hill I can feel the wind pushin' me,
tuggin' at me, tossin' y jacket like an overgrown pup dog
excited to play with someone on that lonely ridge. 
Lookin' down and out I see smoke rise for a few homesteads
and hear the gentle laughter of youngin's as they play an' run. 
Occasionally a screen door slaps 'gainst the houses below with a whack
that is almost too loud for the peace of the holler below me.

All round are the signs of life, ants cling to the side of a sweet gum,
grabbin' bits of sap an' runnin' for home...
bumble bees stagger through the air, about their duty, lookin' for the buds an' hints of flowers,
some not quite open. 
The dogwoods are in bloom, though and the red-bud, both singin' an' shoutin' "look at me, look at me!" 
One can't help but see them in the still yet barren hillsides.

There are but a few little moths and butterflies wanderin' round,
stoppin' 'bout the mud puddles in the road, on the path leadin' up the hill.
 I watch them as they do a jig above the mud and land once more to sip in the water.
Soon enough the air will be filled with bugs an' mites
an all sorts of critters doin' what the good Lord intended.

Me, I'm doin' that too... what the good Lord intended
surveyin' the hills an' hollers of home. 
Knowin' that it is good,
yes, it is good.