Category: Nature

Ratatouille

Photo by Tanner Johnson on Pexels.com

“Watch for the dog. I’ll shred the persimmon.” It was essential that tonight’s sitting go well. The food critic, Ratatouille, whose biopic took the world by storm, would be dropping by to review the restaurant. Their swanky Peninsula location near home gardens filled with fresh produce was ideal. The rats hoped for a five star rating.

When the dog stopped patrolling at 9, it would be safe to open. Gaston checked the sky for Orion. Waiters set out piles of persimmon, pine nuts, and dried passion fruit in the garden shed.

Someone shrieked. Ratatouille? A satisfied cat turned the corner.

Peace and War

Photo by Monica McHenney
The poppy leaf is stiff and white with frost.
Delicate feathers of foliage contrast against
brown mounds of spent high grass.
When the sun comes out, the poppies thaw.
Dew beads on a multicolored expanse of meadow.
Rough and soft textures interweave;
edges spill at random, blend in harmony.

Tetchy plants prefer to dominate, isolate.
Eucalyptus comes to mind.
Allelopathic, eucalyptus inhibits growth in adjacent plants.
Shreds of fallen leaves smother the ground. 
The sameness of the eucalyptus forest,
its homogeneity like a vast suburban tract or a war zone.
Chemical warfare, a kind of balance, a kind of aggression.

Trees Weeping On a Gray Day

Photo by Damien (DAM) Right on Pexels.com
Swirling specters scatter 
cinnamon maple leaves,
whirling dervishes, they dance in autumn 
snow. Wind breathes
life, then stops.

I would stop but
the dogs pull through
slick pools of layered leaf litter, 
a spill of wet red
color seeps into wine dark puddles left from 
last night’s rain.

Just hours ago,
a gray day 
a hint of sun at ten, and blue.
But now it’s settled into quiet light,
an end of year contemplative light.

A wise light that gives 
the year a voice,
gives the day a meaning,
illuminates falling leaves;
a soft blanket over bright, cold truth.

Art Makes Life

Photo by Nguyu1ec5n Thanh Ngu1ecdc on Pexels.com

The artist is not in sight, but dinner is waiting for her. The long thread that holds her web to a fence on one side and a hedge on the other stretches at eye level. We bend to avoid it. We take care because we can. Because we have time to notice.

We are not running from war, wildfires, earthquakes, floods. We are not doom scrolling, furious, hunkered down. Instead, we appreciate the utile beauty of a spider web. It has survival value and strength, a work of art glistening with dew in the sun. A reminder of tenacious life.

Autumn Chill

Photo by Monica McHenney
The dawn light has changed
to a grey gold cousin of the blue brilliance that brightened my summer. 
Max's golden lab fur blends into the tawny tall grass. 
He looks at me. “What do you want? The works? Right.” 
He pees again, strolls to the center of the meadow lawn, and squats to do his business. 

His business is to 
please. It is the thing he does best, most naturally. Despite arthritis, 
his portly, chunky body seems to yield. Face aging white, 
he's older than I am. Seventy-seven. 
At seventy-two, cranky and arthritic, I won't age gratefully or graciously.

Doomsday Clock

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Sun and rain ravage her wind tossed hair,
jet black strands smooth as onyx glass.
Silken threads like kitten's fur, 
new as morning dew on grass. 

A child, yet grown, eyes intent, 
round with wonder, bright with fire. 
Her night brings monsters, malcontents 
wreaking havoc in dreamland's mire.

Ruled by demons dangerous dark,
audacious lies we can do without.
Perdition's putrid stench arises 
ignoring famine, flood and drought.

An omen for tomorrow? 
Resist the slippery slope. 
Stand together against oblivion, 
build barricades of hope.

The future waits. We can save one another.
Honor the Earth for she is our mother.

A Snow Globe Shakes

Photo by Mew wy. on Pexels.com

Wind and sun rage,

hair shines black.

A figure dances,

silken smooth as kitten’s fur or slender morning grass.

A child, yet grown, watches.

Eyes intent with wonder,

they mouth questions,

love,

delight,

a searching soul

dreaming dreams in endless night.

A globe: a house, some trees, a forest deep.

A cataclysm shakes the frigid

orb. Though small, it breaks the world apart.

Snow shoots up, explodes as crystal ice on glass.

The simple juxtaposition lays bare the base. Flaking plastic drifts over

earth and rusting heaps of junk. The scene, innocently ambiguous,

innocence itself subject to a melting world.

Gnome Migration to Points North

Photo by Tove Liu on Pexels.com

The gnomes stayed ahead of the snow melt, seeking higher ground to escape the heat wave. Sweat dripped from under red brimmed caps. Seven months pregnant, Svena raised her hand above her head. She stopped and sipped from a nearly empty animal skin. “It’s no good,” she said. “The forest’s been cleared. You see the stumps.”

The leader said, “We’ll go over the pass to the other side.”

“Dry and dead.” A murmur rose to the point of rebellion. They believed a full womb confers second sight.

“So where?” The man sat. He filled a pipe and lit it.

“North.”

Some Equinox Thoughts

Photo by Kris Schulze on Pexels.com

After March 21st, light outruns dark. Human beings create stories across many cultures to acknowledge, to understand, to make meaning of this phenomenon. When the darkness is finally conquered by the longer days of spring and summer, tales of heroes and villains emerge. Moses and the Pharaoh (Passover), Jesus and Pontius Pilate (Easter.) Krishna and Radha conquer doubts through divine love (Holi) and the forces of good triumph over evil (Nowruz.) Remembering ancestors and preparing to plant come together (Tomb Sweeping Day.)

In September, we’ll prepare for winter decline. For now, be fruitful, make the Earth a better place.

Habitats for Butterflies

Photo by Cindy Gustafson on Pexels.com

Before we go to the zoo, I memorize butterfly names from the books in my grandfather’s library. Tiger swallowtails, yellow and black, their wings majestic as they take flight from an aspen tree. Migrating monarchs drink from lupines.

Xerces blues exist only on paper, their permanent home on page 27,  “Insects of San Francisco .”  I slip the book back on the shelf and wish that someone had rescued the blues. 

My grandfather is ready to cycle with me to the tram. He wears a kerchief over his nose to block the dust. “Used to be they lived in my fields.”