I remember the first time I realized that God not only created the world, but was immanent to it as well.
It was like staring at one of those paintings where an image of a tree or something is hiding, and it suddenly coming into view.
I was searching for God my whole life, but had been staring her in the face all along.
Clumsy reach for truck keys.
Alarm triggered, rhythmic honking startles me.
It also startles a crow above the truck.
We lock eyes,
Waiting to catch the last ferry from Nanaimo to Horseshoe Bay.
On tailgate of my truck, eating Raman and boiled eggs out of a tin bowl—
I watch yellow jackets munch at the dead bugs splattered to the bumper of a Volkswagen.
4th of July.
I stumbled my way up and up the 3.5 mile trail to Park Butte historic Fire Lookout.
I arrive near dusk, not sure the time because I don’t have a watch or cell phone with me.
I find the place empty, how lucky to have it to myself for the night.
Up close, Mount Baker’s glaciers accordion down the southern slopes.
The sun is dipping toward the Salish Sea as I explore the nooks and crannies of the Lookout—pots, pans, water jugs, saws, axes, maps, log books from the 80s and 90s.
A few crumpled Gary Snyder poems in a tattered booklet: Patron saint of Washington Fire Lookouts.
I walk the creaky deck surrounding the Lookout.
The wind talks with long pauses between wordy gusts.
The thrushes sing, a bat flutters by eating bugs, the sky darkens.
Venus and Jupiter twinkle as a million tiny fireworks pop in the valley below.
A golden waning moon rises from the Cascade Mountains.
Sleep comes slowly, interrupted frequently by the wind rumbling and clattering through the leaky Lookout.
Smokey dawn, July 5.
Massive carp break the surface of the large retreatant pond from below, barn swallows nip at it from above.
Constellations of ripples expand like impermanent tree rings
Braid through each other like ghosts and then settle into stillness.
The tall trees and clouds quiver and waver upside down
and then settle into stillness.
Bullfrogs roar at the morning chill, cacophonous birds blare with gossip, and the Abbey bells ring with joy.
(written May 30, 2015)
Standing on an old bridge over the muddy North Fork of Bear Grass Creek.
Blue jays eat ripe mulberries above.
Carp and snapping turtles gobble up the leftovers from below.
[Found these in my notebook!]
A great horned owl rouses the robins who flutter toward the rising sun.
Smoke drifts up valley and cows bay on a nearby hill.
Golden sun breaks through sleeping naked trees.
Coyotes yip in the cold morning air.
A rabbit eats frozen grass.