Billowing clouds snuff sun’s last flare; Day breeze yields to twilight’s fury Trees shake and swirling leaves fly, Rain driving, pouring hard and cold. Towns and farms bolt gates and doors As children whimper, grownups shudder. Heralded by heaven’s light, thunder’s crash, Doc Time is called to dutiful round. Harbinger of destiny, he practices his craft On cobblestones made of bone and sweets. Cries rise more piercing than the wolf’s, Joy more exultant than a heavenly choir. Old Aaron parted around midnight; Reminiscence was born at quarter past.
In a bright room where the sun beams dance, there I sit perched on a cushioned throne, regally aloof and unperturbed by the clutter of a world not suited to my august stature. My eyes are impervious orbs, chill crescents that gaze through tight lids at the current scene filtering out the chaos of my subjects’ souls— fond, but fumbling denizens of my domain. Their human voices, symphony of uneven notes, fall like scattered autumn leaves all about me, with coochies of affection, swoons of adoration, failing to budge me from my afternoon scheme. I just stretch in a languid arc of feline grace, feigning boredom while my humans croon their crude, ear-grating paeans of devotion, soundtracks to my staid and patient resignation. And as day wanes and heat leaves the room, I will purr out a “Meow,” a calculated bridge between the sacred space of my solitude and the clumsy affection of human hearts. In that certain moment, when I deem it so, I may settle in closer, perhaps just an inch, to signal that, “I acknowledge your presence, but remember, I’m still master of this realm.” My subjects, ever grateful for this fleeting gift, stroke my coat with hands trembling in awe, clueless that tolerance is my boon and grace, and affection a crown I wear lightly, if at all. Thus, in ordained tandem, rule is maintained: a sovereign planet alongside faithful moons, each tethered together in a perpetual tango by the gravity of my immutable indifference.
I was drivin’ my van by a neighborhood bait and tackle shop When I saw old Dave carrying his rod with a skip and a hop. “If you’re headin’ Café Teatro way, I’ll give you a ride.” And so, Dave climbed into the van and loaded all his gear inside. I inquired, “What next piscatory venture will you book?” He said, “Listen, I’ll fish any stream or lake I can cast my hook…
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Smith River, Hot Creek, Tahoe, McCloud River Trinity, Oroville, Gila, Owens River Fall River, Mammoth Creek, Klamath, Truckee River Yuba, Don Pedro, Ventura, Merced River Shasta, East Walker, San Jacquin, San Jacinto Los Angeles, Sacramento, and Colorado, bass and rainbow
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Missouri, Snake, Umpqua, Yukon River Mississippi, Yellowstone, Tennessee River Kansas, Ohio, Rio Grande, Feather River Brazos, Colombia, Red, Cumberland River Erie, Michigan, Champlain, Seneca Lake Bear Lake, Devils Lake, Crater Lake, for trout’s sake
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Amazon, Yangtze, Danube, Loire River Orinoco, Po, Seine, Zambezi, Rhine River Brahmaputra, Parana, Nile, Ganges River Murray, Indus, Moselle, Tigris, Yellow River Mackenzie, Niger, Ebro, Vistula, Mekong, Volga, Douro, Oder, Thames, and on and on
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
Rising temperatures have kindled an influx of beavers, a huge swarm, their presence exacerbating the Warm. They’re a transformation across the land, natural engineering without plan.
When the furry critters first appeared, few observers considered it weird. But this was no ordinary feat. There is little sign of their retreat– the effect of these beavers and heat.
The eager creatures keep pouring in, pushing into new, unseen regions. The total number is far from clear, but the impact is certainly real, rousing interest one can’t conceal.
If it’s a problem, what can be done? Perhaps offer a bounty for one or some other way for them to go; but sooner or later they’ll come back leaving yet another nut to crack.
But one way could be to eat them, right? Unless one’s sentiments are uptight. For those who have had the occasion, Say it’s a treat that’s misunderstood; To them beaver can taste pretty good.
In the rosy cradle of dawn, I sit, the warmth of coffee cupped in my hands— a simple pleasure, but so rich in this stillness.
The view is wondrously fluid, the mist rising from the hills like breath exhaled from some ancient earth, the hills distant, yet intimate in their embrace. They greet the sky with a verdant smooch, the kind of green that holds no pretense, no hurried promises of progress.
My backyard, a tranquil haven, stretches to woods that exhale their own language, untouched by the spoil of builders and roadmasters. The trees speak in whispers I only half understand— a dialect older than the hum of suburbia, sturdier than the concrete I walk upon.
I am here, in this pause between worlds, the comfort of civilization behind me and the wild, untamed reach of nature before. This moment—the coffee warming my bones, the woods and hills standing sentinel, uncultured by the design of my neighborhood— it is enough.
No need to claim it, no need to mark it— it simply is, and for now, it holds me in quiet reverence.
It is three-thirty-three in the morning I note the time because I can’t sleep and because it is raining. Yesterday it snowed March … Equinox … almost Easter and still it snows one-and-a-half nearly two inches of sloppy, wet, and sticky snow. So I forage through the odds and ends cluttering the counter. Everyone is slumbering, and I finally find a scrap of paper:
last day of winter— sparrows and cawing of crows; I hear them from the kitchen I don’t hear a robin, though there will be no spring!
See how spring returns. Its first messenger appears— the meadow’s crocuses. This morning amid light snow, precocious buds burst through.
How delicate the purple petals. Borne by the benign breeze, Their sweet scent subtly arrives, Drawing attention from passersby who stop and linger there.
Ice growls like the bear Winds roar like the tiger Clouds whip like the dragon Leaves fly like the whirlwind The sun peeks like the mouse And the rains are undecided No time to plant seed Is it February? Or March? Who dares to go out? The Fool of the Universe
Le fou
La glace gronde comme l’ours Le vent rugit comme le tigre Les nuages fouettent comme le dragon Les feuilles volent comme le tourbillon Le soleil pointe comme la souris Et les pluies sont indécises Pas le temps de planter des graines Est-ce février ? Ou mars ? Qui ose sortir Le fou de l’univers
As bright clouds loom far away, Startled birds rise from the sand. On fragrant grass along the levee Butterflies ceaselessly dance, While fish frolic mid the lotus pads Through light reflected in the ripples. A hermit’s life is a floating reverie. There’s nothing more to say.
The hills and valleys seem to wait for The moon to approach on still waters. A lone goose flies in the darkening sky While a dog barks down the lane. As for me, with no greater plan, I fear that I’m just marking time. A foreign guest in a foreign land, I return home in my dreams.
At night, I climb the lone path to the promontory The forest ends, the sky opens I glance out, my spirit soars Sea waves wash the feet of wind-combed cliffs
With moonlight for guide Wisps of predawn mist shuttle across the horizon The goddess of night seductively beckons Her company cordially declined
She ascends to her heavenly lair The black veil lifted The passage for Apollo’s golden chariot is again assured Vigilant I stand awaiting news from the far-off east.
Road turns to path Passing empty paddies and sleepy huts Turn, twist, I pierce bamboo thickets The valley heat diminishes I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
Wind sweeps through green glade A pagoda clings to mountainside A happy scent of apple blossom In the distance a soft figure stands I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
You Nightingale You shall be perched up high where you can espy while I’m caressing her, while I’m whispering to her, My dove, my darling, my delight, my heart, my happiness, my sweet, my soul! Do let me kiss your dear lips; Do, let yourself be loved!
In the cosmic dance of forces unseen, Where nature weaves its tapestry serene, Five powers reign with awe and might, Each in its own compelling right:
Gravitation, the gentle embrace, Drawing worlds in the celestial chase, A pull unseen, yet profoundly felt, In orbits, where planets have dwelt.
Electromagnetism in sparks that fly, Invisible waves piercing the sky, Kinetic pinball and magnetic magic, Pulsing currents, charged and quick.
Strong Force, binding quarks so tight, In the heart of atoms, a force of might, Where nuclei are held, against all strife, With a glue that bounds atomic life.
Weak Force, subtle and spare, Transforming particles with magic flair, In radioactive decay and fusion’s glow, A quiet agent that spurs the flow.
And amidst these natural symphonies, Lies a force beyond all boundaries, LOVE, the ethereal, intangible art That binds and heals the human heart.
Like gravity, LOVE is a steady hand, Attracting souls from where they stand, Energizing in its electromagnetic stream, Warming hearts with radiant beam.
Strong as bonds in the nuclear snare, LOVE endures, beyond compare, And unlike that Weak Force, it can mend, Heal wounds of spirit, help transcend.
In the vast expanse of time and space, These forces ever weave and interlace, Yet LOVE is the force that knows no end, A beacon, a guide, and a faithful friend.
Thus, in the grandeur of the cosmic plan, From smallest atom to galactic span, LOVE is the force that truly stands apart, Cure for the loneliness within the heart.
A great metropolis awakens beneath a blanket of white, its pulse slowed, subsided, as if the storm had dusted a lullaby across the rooftops. Skyscrapers stand like quiet sentinels, once brimming with the buzz of business, now lost in the muted hush of wind-swept streets.
The honking of horns is displaced by the crunch of boots, sluggish and deliberate, as if the city itself is catching its breath, letting the world reset. Chicago, always on the edge of motion, finds its repose— the sharp edges of traffic blunted, the cold carving clean lines in the air.
Lake Shore Drive is frozen stop-motion, the trees along Lake Michigan dressed in frost, their branches heavy with the weight of snow like pending promises.
Cars idle in strange patterns, their engines purring but going nowhere, a mosaic of commuters suspended in time. The usual chaos, traded for a fragile peace, as if nature spoke a language only the senses can understand: to rest, to breathe, to let go of all that is running, racing, and simply be.
The city glimmers of fresh snow and possibility, a hint of winter’s magic that even in the midst of the rush, something beautiful comes— a perfect pause, a chance to reset, to replace the grimy hum-drum with scenes washed clean.
Shrouded from the roar of life, the city finds its stillness, and in that silence, it reveals its serene beauty.
