Wednesday, October 26, 2011


The wind blew downriver all night and continues today.  The clear sky went overcast before the sun made it above the ridge on the far side of the valley.

After breakfast, I work in the shop for a couple hours until I feel motivated to make my rounds.  I start by visiting the gravel bar where the creek exits the hills.  There is water flowing in the creek, finally.  There are fewer fingerlings...they have someplace to go. I have someplace to go, but their someplace is more important to them than my someplace is to me.  I follow the creek to the cottonwood poem and transcribe it as a favor for A.

Tree     Words
1          someday
2          you will find
3          in a desert or a
4          valley of sparkling
5          surfaces
6          hungry though
7          fed         your common rations of bland
8          cereals hard tack
9          evaporated cane (?)
10        a still slender puddle
11        your memory will work again        you will stand +
12        before two bodies of water two mountains
13        of grass
14        two friendly tableuaxs +
15        unable to enter either - you
16        - out there will sit down here
17        + wait
the sentinels

I follow deer trails and beaver drags through the cottonwoods, coming across a set of sentinel posts - tree trunks planted in the earth...not trees.  These were put here for flood protection.  Now, they wear an interesting collection of fungi.  I come out near the upper end of the lower beach and go out to check the guest register zig-zagging between silt patches.  Coyote, raccoon, deer, seagulls.  A mature bald eagle flies over.  Two immatures follow a minute or two later.

I walk down to the far end of the lower meadow.  I find two pieces of art installation tangled in the trees.  They are parts of a painting that was washed away by last winter's flood.  I debate whether to collect them, but for the time being, I decide to leave them untouched.  When I cut back into the cottonwoods, I end up at the small beaver dam....I always end up here when I cut through these cottonwoods - without intention.  There are fresh trimmed branches.  When I come out of the cottonwoods, I can see the barn, and like a workhorse with a weak driver at the reins, I head straight for it (my dad tells me these things).

the shop/barn/studio/hideout

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