Wednesday, May 9, 2018

Earthquakes


View from my base camp for one more week. Alpenglow. The ever-changing face of the goddess. And poetry, of course.

This evening, as I ambled up the hill to the water tank, to take photos of wildflowers; sunflowers, blue-eyed grass, Ithuriel's spears, brodiaea, vetch, owl's clover, a bevy of small birds,I stumbled and  ground-nesting fledglings, perhaps wrens, tumbled clumsily about my feet, having cascaded down the bank at the base of a bay tree, from their nest.

I stood stock still, afraid to step, as the fallen angels found their way to safety, their parents uttering their one-note call of distress, like the clacker that the nuns used to cue us up as we prepared for conformation. 

The mosquitoes drilled deep to quench their bloodlust, and ate me alive. I stumbled again, thinking it was my crocks, not the earth itself. This time the earth quivered like a horse with sensitive skin.

I marveled at the perfect circle, the ground nest lined with soft grasses, like a basket. The pattern is at hand. Then, the grand finale, the carcass of a rattler, fresh kill, vivid diamond patterns, like a basket woven pattern, at my feet.

Sometime you just have to step outside the circle, if only for a few moments, and everything changes, yet remains the same. 

A holiness within.

(as I was walking back in the gloaming, I stumbled, almost lost my footing, blamed it on my crocs, but it was a series of jolts from The Geysers. A 4.0, and a 4.2 back-to-back, plus several tremors in the 2 range. The geysers are just around the corner to the left of the photo.)

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