Little do we know upon setting out of that we will hold in awe, the
landscape being fresh and untried; first steps upon a high mountain
trail, a first spray of cold seawater, awake, we are so fully awake.

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Weather’s Comin’ On

I sensed it early, even before it was said
I saw it too, over the top of the barn
felt it so, in the chill wind setting the dry
leaves rustling, weather’s comin’ on, big
clouds, grey and heavy roll on the horizon
rolling over each other, rolling over the
narrow ribbon of pale sunset left behind
in the day’s hastened retreat.

We too were fresh and untried, new coming into the country. There were mountains, there were seas never seen, rivers tumbling, winds chopping off the tops of wild waves, all so splendid and fine in the dreams of young men.

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Weather’s comin’ on, black birds flying low sure
to mean a storm, coming in from the South from
the Gulf it comes, riding up the black belt soil up to
clay and sand bringing its seawater here, bringing
the seas here. The horses run, kicking those clouds
back, kicking themselves out of it. Home and shelter
the crux of it.

Mountains and seas, linked and linked again, in weathers, in great rivers of the land and great rivers of the skies, in great imaginations and great circles, waters and tides, in plates and crusts and molten iron and great plumes of steam and fire and great winds, winds that swirl around this earth bringing seas to mountains and mountains to seas, and the soft sea breeze that cooled us when the land was warm.

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Winds north and east blowing snow at the coast
blowing straight across the bridges, straight
across roads, so cold I feel it, lines slapping on
masts the thump of riding waves, thinking of
that warm fire a whole lot of country whole lot
of water to build a good wind on, the red sky
on morning sure to tell me something.

We loved the mountains and the seas though they struck fear in our hearts, we sought them out, seek them out still, seek out their majesty, seek out their grandeur, in awe in their presence. The rise and fall of the sea, the rise and fall of tides, the great breathing of the earth. The pull of moon, the pull of earth, waves rush up wash back, breathing in and breathing out, rhythms old as time.

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Idyllic mountains, a burbling stream, peaceful
now under early autumn skies. Her home just
up the bank. They sensed it first, the rushes
arrowheads and lilies, mussels and crayfish, felt
the water and the air change, the leaves turned
flipped upside, and the pine cones closed.
Storm coming, raindrops fell, and in the faraway
warm water sea, winds set to swirling moving west
over the islands and into the gulf and up the mountains
heavy with sea water barreling like a runaway train
letting loose a deluge upon the land. The creek was
full, Helene she called, Helene she called after her,
no answer came.

So what is our place in this landscape, this place of mountain and sea. How are we to be.
You are too much with us say the mountains and the seas, we can’t breathe.
Humble do we turn in respect of the nature that nurtures us or prideful do we rampage.

We were young then, fresh and untried, new coming into the country

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