the foreground and the background

I walked early today. Sunday mornings are peaceful in the neighborhood. Usually, I notice what stands out - flowers in bloom, the awkward tree stump here or there, what the sun is casting its light upon, a cat chilling under a parked car. But sometimes, I make myself look outside of what first catches my eye. The crepe myrtle with its abundant blooms stands out - I notice that without effort. But then I take care to look a few feet to the left or right or below. I take note of the modest green leaves of some plant unknown to me. There's a crumpled cracking in the sidewalk, but I also look at the plain stretch of short grass in the lawn alongside it. Life's not about the foreground really - the lead actors, the king of the jungle. It's about the background too and how it all melds into the whole. There's the big picture: the dirt, the flowering tree, the calling dove, how long the sun is in the sky this day, the pattern of leaves on the curb. Ants check out the remains of a piece of chicken on a blacktop parking lot, and red birds flit into shrubs as fast as dragonflies.

yard man's debris
left at the curb
this and that
waiting for the city truck
to pick them up -
branches and vines
with drying leaves curled inward.

there hangs a treasure
almost transparent
within the shambles
a little nest
of wasp spit and fiber
from leaves and wood matter -
hexagonal cubbyholes
of paper perfection


the wasp nest glows -
a small 10-compartment affair
long ago abandoned -
an archaeological wonder -
the architecture
of humble inch-long masters
with wings

piano strings

it's the far side
of the year 2000
guitar necks shrinking
songs on the radio
fading into a tinny whine
we listen to talk show chatter
about the private escapades
of folks we've never met
and contemplate - hey!
where did the piano strings go?

Yellowstone


The wolf was resting in the sagebrush they said.
The valley was quiet, the sun blinding bright.
The children made a message out of sticks and bones
in the hot dry field.
They did not know how to spell, how to write
but they knew how to ask
for gracious assistance.

There's this movie - late 1970s? early 1980's? Jack Nicholson is on a train in the dining car. He asks the waiter for toast. 'I'm sorry, sir. We have no toast. We only have what's on the menu.' 'But toast is what I want! That's all I want.' 'I'm sorry, sir.' Jack argues a bit more with him, and finally says, 'Fine. I'll have the BLT, then.' 'Very good, sir.' And the waiter turns to go. Jack says, 'But wait. Hold the lettuce.' The waiter takes this down. 'Hold the mayo.' Pause. 'Hold the tomato.' Waiter purses his lips. 'And, one more thing...' Jack looks up at the waiter. 'Hold the bacon. Thank you very much.' Jack puts down the menu.

Or something like that. It's been a long time.

Then, there was this cat named Earle Wynn. He was named after a baseball player, but I only knew the cat.

He grew to be a grand old age for a cat when he took quite ill. He was no longer eating. His mistress was in much distress. Her cat was dying. A friend advised her to bring the cat some fresh trout. So, she went to the great Seattle market on the straits, found a whole, fresh-caught trout and brought it home to Earle. He sniffed the raw fish. He tasted. He ate slowly, and then with tremendous appetite, as though he had never eaten before.

He lived on for some time.

Meditation

I've been knitting, walking, sketching and painting this weekend. There are times I let go of words, times words get in the way of knowing what's around me.

Harrummph.

Two observations tonight. One is that when I walked home from the coffee shop this morning, I saw a cat - a calico kitten, really - and a dog - a small dachsund mix - together on someone's driveway. Now, that doesn't probably sound very worthy of notice except - it's been a long time since I've seen a cat and dog together, just hanging out on a driveway! Brought back memories of when neighbor dogs kind of cooled their heels around the front door step, and the cats sat under a shrub, and they all got along more or less. This kitten was wearing a collar; she was big as my father's shoe. The dog wagged its tail my way. The cat, focused on the dog, crouched into pouncing position, as though she were going to fly onto the dog, who looked back at her, like, 'Harrummph.'

The other observation is not new. There seem to be neighbors here and there experimenting with discovering what local plants would be flourishing if there were no suburban lawns. They set aside small areas - some as small as one foot by one foot, some maybe two by six. They create a border of bricks or stones, and then, they don't do anything. They don't weed or mow or prune what comes up in that little space, but just wait and see.

What would grow on this square foot of territory were it never mowed? The results are fascinating and surprisingly appealing - these tufts of wild grass, vines, tiny blooms and saplings. They have a kind of sparky personality and diversity.