Walking home
one lone frog calls
from the creek
again and again
in the almost dark
I greet him inside me
as I leave him behind
wishing him
plenty of water
and good bugs
always.
Frog Metta (52)
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Category Archives: Walking
1000 Tiny Princes (51)
Saturday evening
a house across the creekbed
blasts music
but the frogs make it okay
make it tolerable
so many voices
loud
plaintive
happy
contradictory
ceaseless call and response
so many
I remember years ago
after the rain
tiny frogs
everywhere
on the path
so many
you had to watch
every time
where you put your foot.
Side by Side (50)
I walk on the creek path
after the rain
one small, dear channel of water
runs in the center of the bed
when I turn to go home
it walks with me in my direction
silent companion
in the desert dusk.
Small Hurts (47)
Before the election, I turn from my mailbox to see my neighbor Ted and his dog Buster walking toward me. They look happy. “I just got a letter from Mike Bloomberg,” I say. Ted teases me about how Mike and I can’t keep our relationship secret much longer, and I fall in step with them on their slow walk home. We talk politics, about who we are voting for in the primaries, about how much we both like Elizabeth Warren. We fix the world, talk about the environment. That gets me going about banning Roundup, and we talk about how people would have to be willing to tolerate some weeds or actually pull some weeds, give up a little on the pristine. We talk about edible weeds, my fondness for dandelions and their greens. (Right now another neighbor has some nice big ones behind his trailer I am quietly harvesting.) At my gate we stop. “Well, I have to get going,” I say.
“Oh, sorry,” Ted says. “I’ll get off my soapbox.”
“No,” I say. “It’s always a pleasure.” But I am instantly sorry I said I had to go. Something under my skin bubbling up, the need to finish prepping my class before I leave. But I could have been happy standing there a few more minutes, fixing the world together. I wish I had.
Otherworldly (36)
The mystery black birds appear in the guayaba tree in the late afternoon. They perch and poke for seeds, awkward at the three tube feeders I’ve hung for my house finch. I watch through the open louvers in the back room. I thought they sounded familiar when I heard them in the morning on the telephone pole, but now I have a front row seat. They are red-winged blackbirds! I am in love with them, the females especially, so subtle and intricate—light, bright brushstrokes of paint across their blackness. Watching them in all their quiet glory takes me back to when I lived in Cotati, and I would walk out behind one of the old Hewlett Packard campuses at the end of the day. (It was a walk my friend Meri introduced me to.) Red-winged blackbirds perched on every bush and thrust of stem in an open field. I stood on the edge of the road and listened to the magic, lilting songs, waves of music echoing around me in the late dusk.
Tweet 30 Tail End
I wake to snow on the mountains, cold, clean air. I don’t have to work until later, so I pretend it’s a day off. I move through it with ease and delight, the farmer’s market, the library, trimming the bougainvillea, luxurious winter sun salutes in the courtyard. Divine.
[30 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
Yes, I goofed, so I am posting my last three on this last day of November!
Tweet 29 Offering
We hike to the oasis across the road, small groupings of fan palms. I walk with a cluster of their dark berries dangling in my hand, savoring their sweetness, spitting seeds. When I have had my fill, I lay the berries down with care on a rock, gift for the coyote.
[29 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
Yes, I goofed, so I am posting my last three on this last day of November!
No Holds Barred 