AND IF IT RAINS (SUNDAY'S SACROSANCT SOLEMNITY)

And if it rains the rains the night storms can smash against the glass and the outsides of the panes, the redbrick and the rest, eventually making its way down to dying flowers and shrubs or the grasses and bricks that will be covered with late October leaves and eventually with snow. The record shop is out there, the albums soulful and diverse, and other Sunday rain-soaked things include the tops of storms and streets where the effluent water goes down and down slopes until it circles gratings and then drops lower into the dark vacuum abyss of the underground infrastructures.

We were thinking of old Sundays like that, the memory brought back through the records themselves or at the least the idea of them. Books, the pages a bit yellowed, and the old used bookstore long closed down and gone off into a memory. The coyote that was seen in the verdant but still urban area, - near the tops of summits where Pine trees grow. Those trees, once so small, have determined to take their vitamins and sun over the years,- and perhaps the roots have dug as far into the soul of the soil as the branches have clung against odds to the air and reached for the clouds year in and out. 

And what else? What else is there? Deep in the tavern but over coffee there is talk of dreams that speak of premonitions both dangerous and new. Maybe also the second body comes out before sleep and looks around the room, - proof of some kind of afterlife. Yet,- these things are not to be caught up in and are if anything even a hindrance on the way to what is considered to be enlightenment, awakening, moksha, nirvana, freedom, the end of suffering. So we stay in the atmosphere of the Sunday rain. Like a great writer said somewhere, One world at a time. 

And what of the world? It has beads and feathers, streets and chimneys and an old secreted

pathway that separates the new, secular, falsely bright attractions from what is considered old, but is naturally lit by the moon and the constellations, silvery bright, pastoral, kind even in death, and always there. It’s the chosen side,- the trees and leaves and fields with a hundred, no a thousand and more nuances from the porcupine to the wildflower, from the mushroom to the rain, again the rain,- pattering upon leaves in the late afternoon sacrosanct solemnity.

But for now, - the proverbial middle path has to be tread, so I walk on. 

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MUSHROOM AND OTHER

                 

The first part of the small journey brought us along the far perimeter of the forest. There, a pathway mostly unused had a tree covering that blocked out the majority of the sun. Yet, some rays found their way through and down this leafy roof akin to the way certain snowflakes did in winter or in the manner wetness announced itself when it rained. These parts of sun, shards of light, kissed trunks or the tops of mushrooms, the old wire fence with the wooden posts, and other. Something scurried in the distance, possibly a squirrel, but all in all there was only the path and the drops of sun.

   

            It is outside of there and afterwards, a pathway having led up and up and up, perhaps two or three stories, but patiently and on a long half kilometre or more rise, that the open fields waited. A fox runs off cutting across the distant corner, to the left, after having glanced back so briefly. The tall tree grows and it is covered with leaves and vines, an energy emanating from its self, a pure way, and the tree, old, tall, observing the flaxen fields and the rains that come visit the little hills and crevices, the wild grapes that hide under their own bushes as if keeping a secret, possibly the secret of themselves, from something.

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AUTUMN FIELDS (NUMBER 200)

(PATHWAY AND TREE/ GRASSHOPPER/ BAMBOO STICKS/ DOG AT ATTENTION/ FINE RED BERRIES AND THE FINAL BIRDS OF THE DAY).

Looking back after reaching halfway across the sixty four square hectares, a tall tree, strangely full of leaves and vines all the way up the trunk, waits and witnesses. The lurid summer heat and oppressiveness has gone and the autumnal breezes, hues, frosts, and spirit is in full bloom. The path goes along and then to a rise, then along again, and down, then up and along, and it carries like that. There are places you can go off and to the left or right. To the left is a summit where at the bottom a hidden marsh lives that sprouts on its sides hundreds if not thousands of buttercups untouched and unknown the July afternoons. Beyond that are train tracks, but they are not as easy to get to as one would think. The cargo or freight cars come past and when they do, the sneak quickly out of the cover of orange and yellow fall trees in order to show their own green, blue, sometimes even purple or silver squares,- and then after a few thousand yards they head back in like a dream like a secret like quick vision.

Up from there and back on the path the grasshoppers have been borne. They scatter like

myriad tiny flames in a fire as a stick lodges the log out. It’s the small ones, like ants or flies that make the air for an instant practically opaque down by the feet. A few larger ones are more calm, and will watch you if you move slowly, waiting for you to pass like the peculiarity, the possible threat, the monster that you are. I have seen these on leaves, trunks, and even rubber tires. Stuck by their intricacies, design, and beauty, plus speed and agility, I usually try and lean over and down looking for a photograph as close and at the same time as non-intrusive as possible. Then I go and sometimes he or she goes, while at others it stays there, somehow sagacious with its calm and border-line piercing look.

Sometimes we run into walker and dog or dogs or group or groups. Sometimes not. The earth there seems to be able to absorb much, and the people, though nobody is perfect, are usually good natured. Maybe this has something to do with them being outdoorsy types or dog or nature enthusiasts. Who knows? There are as we go all sorts of berries and vines, feral shrubs and taller, older trees. Once a large woodpecker with the actual red read or feathers flew out and away, no doubt disturbed by our presence. And down near the end where the forest beings again, - was that a fox or a coyote one Saturday morning after night storms that practically danced along the perimeter looking at us and then decided to take off to the deeper ways and labyrinthine paths? This time, what was noticed, were simply a couple bamboo or bamboo-like stalks growing from the ground and staying around happily together in the air.

Of course the dogs run, sniff, walk, play, wonder, circle back, go forward, and disappear up and into interesting and secreted ridge ways and beyond. Sometimes they can sense something I can’t, and sometimes I can see or sense something they don’t, but mostly it’s the former. One stands at attention practically, looking beyond, maybe listening for something. This body language, these proxemics, will develop into a chase, a greeting, or else just relax and move away to somewhere else as in saying in movement I thought it was something, but it was not really anything to worry about on the one hand or get excited over on the other.

Leaving the many contours and straightaways that house the fields. Skipping the forest this day, we simply and graciously continue to head out. There is a large trunk that sits hollowed out and it seems it would do well in a fairytale or some kind of magical story. Some birds make a circular movement in a group, far in the pre-dusk sky and are silhouetted against the white cumulus and the deep blue by turns. Though silent, they are akin to part of some song, yes, a section of song or a verse from poem that the fields and the entire atmosphere sings continuously. There is a new series of berries as I look down. They have not been seen before. So fine and small and red, plus living on intricate little branch-like trees or plants themselves. I have missed these, and realize again what I know,- that there is always something new, even along the seemingly same ways.

More birds catch my eye then. They are beyond.

I look up and up at them, cupping a hand over my eyes for the sun. They move through and about the air, alone and together in the final dance of the day.

WHITE MAGIC AND SIGNS IN THE HILLS (NUMBER 199)

I always wondered as I walked across the part of the pathway that is full of sand just how the sand got there. It’s such a foil or counterpoint and juxtaposition to the feral grass and the dirt, to the sky and the flaxen fields. I mean, sand, in the middle of that place. But it’s beautiful and some dogs have dug a whole near there, in it, as if to bury a treasure or else follow a scent to a seriously dedicated end. Whatever the case, as I look out and out and out, there is an amazement each time when the eye sees the horizon, the small summits, the autumnal hues of the trees there and the rest…

Going along and down the main path I was struck by how many wild grapes have grown there. It is a moment during these days and couple weeks when they are so ripe and full, so deep and textured purple that they become as dark as the earth itself. This is a good dark, like white magic, and speaking of such, I was thinking of practicing some for the benefit of another soul, and have in the head, have in the mind, have in the intent anyhow. But such things are for another time and place and page. For here, we are concerned with being a nature poet, a walker of fields and forests, and are almost upon entry two hundred in an ongoing writing and photography narrative of the impressions of such local travels/excursions. 

Hidden up a small hill is a place where an old tree looms large making its silhouette against the impossibly clear blue sky? Below is a part of the tree that had a strange wildflower/mini-shrub growing near it and lying against it. It wasn’t until I looked at the picture that I noticed a worm or one of the creatures had made markings in the tree. If you look, the markings look like a creature, something like a lion or a four legged animal that has a ghostlike face and looks up, beckoning, reasoning, pleading, singing, or knowing, or seeking to know or learn or discern something from the sky, from up, which I always say is positive, higher, god-like,- spiritual. And this is where it gets very tricky indeed, - for like searching for spirits inside cabochons/jewellery,- which exist, and I was found there,- are these lines random or formed or inhabited by a spirit?- and what of it anyhow and if so? Is this a part of white magic? - seeing or sensing or looking for these types of things? Who is to know? 

On we go. If you really want enlightenment you can’t stop anywheres, yes ‘anywheres’ with an ‘s’ because that is anti-intellectual, anti-academic, and even anti-literary. Going we go. Down and down, and there are flowers and up from there are birdhouses, the odd one anyways, - and beside it if you look closely, on the left looking on, - a jet stream comes out, from across the skies behind. The dog, one of them, stands briefly beside it all and looks around. She is cautious but happy, a guardian, all heart and soul, - pure live being manifested, - a living spirit as physical form.

And there are other things. The wild buds, green and brown, have most all burst and white seeded feather-like cottony material has flown out and around and stays like a beautiful picaresque scene. Each one is made from the same, but presents differently. And there is the area, then day, late day, but now night, - and it must be colder, and these things are closed up and keep their secrets to themselves. The white magic parts, such as the lines in the wood, - are still surely there, and you can’t prove that they don’t wonder as much about us as we do about them.

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