Bloomsday 2015

Bloomsday 2015

This is the Nogales Cliff House ruins, nearly 1000 years old.

This is my birthday. I'm seven decades on this earth. Today I begin working on the eighth.

There are warm, flower-filled pots on backporch releasing sweet scent in the rain. Storm here over us just now, come from raining over Pagosa Springs two hours ago. Moving on already towards Amarillo. Life's slower now, despite speedy weeds leaping out of the ground all around and sun gone just about as far north as it's gonna.

I was born before man exploded the Trinity bomb south of here. Before jet travel. Before space was a destination. Before access to birth control.

Fortunate to be born during the season of the most light, because I was barely sighted. Fortunate to be born when it was warm, because I was extra tiny. Fortunate to be born middle class, because my vet dad could go to college and get a tiny house.

Fortunate to be born a woman in America, because my sisters elsewhere were not even as free as me. Fortunate to have lived into the age of birth control, because my ancestors weren't. Fortunate to have been given an education, because by great grandmothers hadn't. Fortunate to live now with fresh air, because that's not true for my siblings. Fortunate to have sunshine and clean water, because they're not so available where my children live.

Fortunate to have been through seven tens of turns around the sun. Fortunate to be. In joy!



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April Winds

Anne on back porch cropt Apr '15, by KD IMGP3918.jpg

Electricity went out this morning at 8:30. Snowed a heavy, wet inch last night and must have torn a line. No computer. So no sounds. Also no taxes (what I'd planned to do today). No submissions (what I should be doing). No viewing /organizing / naming / cropping / saving photos (what I need to do). No working on website (ditto). Walked down to the cove:

Eagle pair feeding babies / Cormorants whirl in flight / Clark's Grebes spike fish / Ring-billed Gulls play on the wind / Ravens and eagles tangling in the air.

When I get back to cabin the electricity has returned. Darn. 

National Poetry Month and Easter

 . . . and Earth Day. What does it signify that poetry and egg-centered creation ceremonies are concurrent?  I drive across the Tusas/Brazos Pass in the Southern San Juan Mountains on dry roads padded by softening snow ridges on the shoulders. Silvery ribbons of melt web still crusty marshes at the top of the mountain. Little rills fall downhill in rushing flush. Cold ponds are full to the brim. I see two kestrels, a prairie falcon, flocks of mountain bluebirds and dozens of deer --little packs of does and their fawns. Both gold and bald-headed eagles scoop the skies as I near the wild river canyon.

At the drying lake (a young reservoir whose status is lowest on the refill list) the bald eagles are already nesting. No sign yet of osprey, but mating ravens carve sharp winds above the dam and and north-heading geese fly in pairs over it. The chicamunks have left off sleeping and raid the leavings under the bird feeders. Many Cassins finches, pygmy nuthatches, white-faced nuthatches, mountain chickadeedeedees, packs of scrub jays, magpies, crows. Deer show up in the sideyard shy as women in purdah. They are annoyed and feel they must leave when I open the door.

And I dutifully do the taxes – returns both slippery and ovoid, require a certain sense of creativity – under bright wind sky and simmering sun streaming through large windows. Taking a break to write this. Going on a walk soon!