Weight of Water
Winter 2013

     Passing over White Oak Mountain one morning in the winter, the clouds were weighted down with water. No view of the mountains in the distance, no blue sky, no sunshine lighting up the atmosphere. 
    The heavy clouds just hung over the darkened hills ahead. The farther north I drove, the farther the rain seemed to have pushed it's way through the clouds, falling to the ground. Droplets falling, seemingly weightless.
     If you've ever carried a pail of water you know that water is heavy. Spread out among the droplets, it seems weightless. And, yet, those clouds over the mountains look so heavy and full of the promise of life giving water. 
    The weight of water happens after the wait for water. We love the sunshine, we need the rain. So, when the wait for water ceases, the weight of water begins its' slow descent to mother earth waiting below. 
     On the drive home, the clouds were still heavy over White Oak Mountain. What appeared to be lightning in the clouds, was actually the reflection of the beakens from cell phone towers. Their blipping white light reflected off the clouds as they made their ascent back into the upper atmosphere. 
     We benefit both from the wait and the weight of the water. 
     The wait for water weighs heavily on my mind.

Llamas Lay on the Hay

The Llamas lay on the hay, hey, hey


The llamas lay on the hay.


The donkey's in there today, hey, hey


The donkey’s in there today.


Coyotes, you better beware; the donkey’s always in there,


he’s guarding and watching your prey, hey, hey


He’s guarding and watching your prey.


The llamas have plenty of class, but, the donkey, he’ll kick your ass!


The llamas lay on the hay, hey, hey


The llamas lay on the hay.

Like bits of chocolate on a bed of mint, the cows dot the grassy hillside. Heads down, bowing to the glistening dew, accepting nourishment from the sun posing as green plants, the cows accept their lot in life. From the road, that life looks simple, calm and content. The cows are giving each other some space, not crowding the others out because they think the grass is better here or there. The clover doesn't spoil their meal or give reason for pause. Such acceptance is rarely seen in nature much less in human nature. Neither happy nor sad, the great bovine remain vigil in the fields maintaining their dignity until it is snatched from them in one quick moment. I wonder if they think about their long, leisurly walks back to the barn on a summer evening, or remember the birth of their calf as they are led to slaughter?

Glancing at Geese

A gaggle of geese: winged beautys traversing the air in a bevy of beauty without any care. 
Gliding softly in unison around the tall trees.
In one accord bowing their wings, seemingly touching, maintaining a symetry like a multi-winged parachute, tilting and leaning with the wind. 
Brown feathers edged in black are nature's cue that these owners of the sky are as comfortable there as humans are with two feet planted firmly on the ground.  
Their mission, unclear to me, looming in front of them like an ocean wave, came to them as clearly as their existance.
Stealthily sliding into the pasture in precision formation, all eyes are on the air show.  
A sight of beauty as fleeting as the moment, gone as quickly and precisely as the geese could land.

A Squirel's Life

Pat, pat, pat, and that is that;

scratch, scratch, scratch, where was that?

Nuts in the ground,

are they ever found?

Paw over paw, claws over claws...

winters that gnaw,

empty stomachs wait for the thaw,

Can't make a map,

don't take a nap!

Fuzzy gray fur, just a small blur,

clinging to trees, nobody sees.

Climbing thin branches, taking their chances;

can anyone find their trail?

Gray squirrel, gray squirrel, swish your bushy tail!

Shawdowy, drooping, black, hunched over shapes catch the eye and rip it from its' socket realizing there are a dozen or more of these shapes hanging in what used to be a living, vribrant tree. 

In Chatham and all around Pittsylvania County, the vultures live communally. 

Turning the corner from the highway, their forboding large, black feathered bodies lurk in the limbs of a dying tree. Recalling the mangled limbs and protruding red innerds of an unlucky white tail deer lying prostrate in the road, I came to a conclusion:

it seems the Vultures know about rush hour.

 

All visible factors show no need to pounce on their already still breakfast while cars whiz past, disturbing their feast.

 

  Vultures know about rush hour,

 

it will all be over soon and from then until around noon,

they can twist and tear that flesh and bone from limb to limb and be all alone. No honking horns, no screeching tires giving them rise to snatch and run, they've only just begun. 

 

I must conclude, as clues exude: 

 

Vultures KNOW about rush hour!

White Oak Mountain View

On a clear day at the top of White Oak Mountain you can see the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The hills loom up along the horizon like rock monsters. In grayscale, due to the distance, there is no distinction of green leaves or brown trunks, just mounds disrupting the blue sky, some are long ridges, some are rounded peaks, and one looks like an Eqyptian pyramid. Ones mind wanders towards them like the calling of the Sirens at sea or the temptation of mirages in the desert or the sweet smell of baking. The next morning, the haze returns and the mountains seem to have disappeared into the background, leaving a mystery for the horizon.