Franconia Basin

Scoured aeons ago by a retreating ice age,
those grey, granite shelves stretching
across a mountain slope catch the eye as
an invitation to linger. The endless source
of streams and rivers below, a raging
torrent races with bellicose sound over
mountain-tossed boulders and granite
shelves alike, bursting with furious energy
dominating all other of nature's boundless
and wild elements here in this Notch.

Generations upon generations of people,
from the indigenous to the pioneering
stock who elbowed them aside, to the present
who come to gawk and gape at the spectacle
of raw natural resources, portion of a nation's
pride in such geological endowments, have
worn thin the soil through countless booted
treads, revealing a contorted network of
tree roots, clinging to sparse forest compost.

Ancient trees, towering and thickly-girded
pines, hemlock and yellow birch, proclaim
their regal presence by the very essence of
their scale. Lichens and mosses encasing
the original aged integuments in grey and
green armour, their high canopy sheltering
beneath their still-tender successors. And a
smattering of bracken, along with coltsfoot,
hawkweed and lilies. Here and there, felled trees,
their corpses and raw wounds testament to
ferocious weather events, passing through.

Those spectacularly breathtaking vistas of
rock ledges marching the slopes, mountain
streams tumbling fiercely over those ledges,
giants of the forest stretching into the distance,
the endless vista of ongoing neighbourly summits,
with the vast sky above, its hanging, lingering
white, grey and black clouds dominating
all they survey and beyond, into forests below.

Nature awes, inspires, entertains and informs us.
Offering haven to migrating birds and choice
homes to the creatures, large and small that
make their journeys from life to death within
its generous confines. For we whose brief
adventures of re-acquaintance with the splendid
nature of Nature, the touchstone of return at a
huge remove, from our immediate existential
reliance, becomes its own ineffable reward.

Old Rattlesnake

Was a time we virtually sprinted up
that mountain trail. Mountain? Hey, more
like a carbuncle of a geological feature on
the New Hampshire landscape of granite
mountains, national and state forests and
fresh water lakes in grand natural abundance.
We were once handily capable of matching
our children's casually energetic strides of
youthful exuberance and adventure.

This has become for us, these forays into
the mountain landscape, a fond tradition.
Forty years on, we are now a simple brace,
still parents, but of children now older than
we were back then. In place of our children,
two elderly little companion dogs, as resolute
as we, eager to expend what energy we can
muster, to match the enthusiasm for
adventuring we cannot and need not contain.

They, like us, youth long behind, but freshness
in vision and aptitude for ongoing trysts with
nature's life-enhancing opportunities, forge on,
delirious with the exhilaration of it all, the
fragrance of the woods, the freedom of movement,
the evanescent birdsong, the teasing presence
of wildflowers; above all, the challenge.

As we initiate the ascent, the syncopated
rhythm of a pileated woodpecker sharply
drums the air. The series of fierce cloudbursts
that marched through yesterday has left
the trail darkly drenched, gravel crunching
underfoot at the trailhead. Our little dogs
are intrigued by odours released by the
rain and are loathe to be hurried along.

The initial ascent is marginally steep, the
trail far too well-maintained; on the verge of
irritating. The natural slope would be far
more welcome than the current advent of
rock-and-log-conceived "steps". Once the
notional steps are left behind, and a
network of tree roots and packed dirt-and-grit
trail remains, progress improves substantially.

Venerable pines, maples and oak whose
measured girth has been elaborated by
ancient layers of lichen lend an otherworldly
air of primeval fantasy to the landscape. An
oven bird's prolonged, repetitive call punctuates
the forest stillness. Along the trail, acorns litter
the ground; swift, tiny chipmunks make their
stealth forays, fleet as shadows to claim bounty.

Huge boulders appear beside the trail,
well lichened and mossed. Underfoot, smooth
granite outcroppings replace the trail from
time to time. Above the leafy canopy, some
blue sky winks back, interrupted by voluminous
billowing clouds, some so black, they throw
a darkly secretive ambiance on the arras.

Dragonflies, large and dark, flit by, intent
on their incessant hunt. The understory of
hemlock and moose maple, along with fern
and tree seedlings march in green insouciance
upon the lower landscape. And among them,
lilies-of-the-valley hugging the bases of
tree trunks; the delicate tiny white bells
already on the fade end of bloom. Solomon's
seal are present, and blueberry shrubs, along
with the flower-white of blackberries.

Obtaining the height, a sprinkling of rain,
as dark clouds hesitate despite the incessant,
determined wind. The views are modestly
splendid...of the lake below and of the vast
sky, scattered with wide stretches of cloud.
An effort, a reasonable and pleasurable one,
has brought us supreme satisfaction and
no little amount of maturity-validation.

Seasonal Complexities

Comprehension must become somehow
dulled to atmospheric and weather nuances
wedded to the season. Computational
skills halt at percentages of predictability.
Daily weather reports and alerts seem
to defy understanding. Summer has
arrived, releasing people into the out-
of-doors and nature's little tricks of
teasing nonchalance, throwing in a day
of clear skies juxtaposed with another of
continuous rain events simply makes life
much too exasperatingly complicated.

Life in summer's casual lanes requiring no
thought to protect tender humans from
dire elements of weather lays to rest
constant cold-weather concerns. It is now
summer. Full stop. We will brook no
inconveniences, nor lend an ear to forecasts,
let alone give credence to the visual proof
of reality brought to the fore by thunder,
lightning, cloud bursts and tornado warnings.

It is only the faint of heart, the ninnies, the
hesitant who equip themselves with rain gear
as they venture into the outside, forsaking the
comfort and shelter of interior architecture
of a civil society. They represent a decided
minority within a largely countrified society,
proud of their independence, their stalwart
unheeding demeanor in the face of nature's
temporary adversarial assaults. Not for them
the cowering surrender to umbrellas and
rain coats; feints for the sadly urbanized.

The locals dart about in resistance to wind,
rain, warnings of sleet, cold days. Keeping
firmly in mind yesterday's full sun, ambient
heat, gentle breezes, that only carefree summer
days can bring. Out they issue from homes and
vehicles, shorts- and tee-shirt-clad, sandals
and bare limbs turning quaintly purple-pimply
with cold-and-rain exposure, hair matted and
glistening with ball-caps, shoulders gathered
inwardly-protective in a warmth-futile effort
to stave off chill. They're tough, not given to
snivelling weather constraints and complaints,
meeting sour weather head on. Yes, they're
rough, tough, oblivious, and proud of it.

Curriculum Vitae

Great good humour, a wonderfully
good nature and relaxed sense of
well-being, inclusive of my presence.
A robust, sometimes wry, always clever
and succinct ability to sum up a situation
and see a problem through to an immediate
and appropriate conclusion. An unfailing
reason and presence of mind, capable
of deep interest and understanding,
overwhelming me by the width and
breadth of his boundless curiosity.

A completely open and reasonable
mind, alert to nuances and perspectives.
That incurable curiosity about what
lies beyond his previous experience and
knowledge base, leading him to propel
toward acquiring a well-grounded
understanding to accomplish whatever
tasks he sets for himself, out of sheer
determination and willingness to acquire
the required ease with the tools required.

His character and sense of responsibility,
leading so frequently to a considered analysis,
a workable conclusion. His engaging empathy
extended toward and beyond the familiar.
His unwillingness to harm even noxious,
nuisance things that live and thrive, invade
and irritate. These creatures will be rescued and
retrieved to live another day, why not?

His intemperate joy in life and its
complexities. His keen, sometimes puckish
more often mordant, razor-sharp wit,
geared to amuse and yet balance carefully
what lies beyond the sanguine obvious.
His courage in helping me to face any shared
life difficulties. His unflagging regard for the
well-being of intimate others, me primarily!

His encouragement, his reversions
to the enthusiasms of youth, drawing
his adoring partner to repeat the pleasures
of, say, dancing to the music of younger
years, all those too-many-to-count years
ago when we truly were young, the age
our grandchild has now attained, oh my!

And so much more.... The smile that
lingers on his familiar face as he regards
me. The comfort of his touch as flesh
meets its partner. The love and trust,
respect and joy that exudes from each
of us. Inexorably, toward the other. Ah,
I regret to say, the position is no longer
open; it has been admirably filled. I
commend you for your interest and urge
you to try elsewhere; it will not be regretted.

Oblivious

There are so many people who go through
life deliberately unengaged with others'
concerns even when those concerns happen
to impact the entire society. Deliberately or
through sheer disaffection, effectively
disinvesting themselves from mutual concerns
to which others hasten to respond while they,
the utterly self-invested simply remain
insensibly unaware, free to remain so.

Whether concerning neighbourhood
improvement, social ills; man- or nature
-inspired, ameliorating activities are always
someone else's concern, most certainly not
theirs. For they mount themselves above the
common fray. Knock at such doors collecting
charitable funds for an obvious social cause
of undoubted repute and their cold dismissal
places you and all other such common pests
in a well-earned place; social dungeon.

These are the entitled who will not cancel
personal planned events of social delectation
in the face of cataclysmal potential. A dread virus
surfacing to threaten the global community?
No matter. The exotic locale of an upscale
accommodation, tailored for the moneyed
set and pretenders beckons and they will
not miss their flight, nor pampered getaway.

Even as humanitarian groups work
feverishly to rescue, house, feed and medicate,
counselling the indigenous afflicted beset by
misfortune resulting from a major hurricane,
tsunami, earthquake or massively destructive
oceanic oil spill, the entitled bask in their
exclusive hotels, eating their gourmet meals,
sunning on beaches where volunteers clean
wildfowl and remove unsightly oil washing ashore
to destroy the pristine surface of fine white
sand, the sublime turquoise waters of
Paradise, horrendously defaced.

This is all so dreadfully inconvenient, too
drearily disturbing of one's anticipated
enjoyment. The tedious presence of those
do-gooders runs disturbingly counter-
productive to the exclusive elegance of
paid tourist presence. Simply intolerable.
Something should really be done about that.

Flogging Golf

That’s his style. His personality. Just jump in. Spontaneity, that’s what he responds to. Don’t even think about it. Seldom was he left without a response. Optimistic invitation to discourse, as much a personality imperative as was inhaling oxygen to fuel his mechanical bodily functions. He was gregariously inclined, open to every opportunity to communicate.

Confoundingly, he was also a cynic, clearly recognizing the base as the basis of most basic human emotions when people were pressed for personal advantage. Within him, the two polarities struggled to compete for ultimate advantage, one capitulating to the other.

So when he pulls up in front of the antique mall, taking care to park as far as possible from the signe in its large raised-bed structure, he is automatically responding to a previous incident he was exposed to.

Two rough-looking men on their way to the entrance of the mall were perfect foils for his exhilaration on arrival, his anticipation. As he exited the driver’s seat, he engaged them immediately and their disinterested surly faces turned friendly and amused by his description of misadventure.

“You were that excited?”

“Yep. Backed right into the bugger. Didn’t even see it.”

“You must’ve got some bargain!”

“Not that, just so pleased at finding good stuff. And you’re right; good price, too.”

They laughed, looked over at the offending structure.

“Dented my back-side door. I had to wrestle the bumper back straight on. Kind of soured my mood.”

“Yeah, it would”, they agreed, suddenly good fellows, making their way to the door, waving to him.

In the group shop, he adjusted his expectations, reminding himself of the majority of annual visits where he had found nothing worthwhile. His other side nudged another memory, of porcelains and clocks and paintings he had ‘discovered’ at various dealers’ stalls over the years. He moved slowly from one large glassed-in shelving unit to another; perusing, evaluating their interiors. Some half-intriguing objects, the majority representing bits and pieces of unadulterated junk.

The unfamiliar face he had greeted on entering, sitting behind the front desk had eyed him curiously, returning his greeting. Halfway down one case of glassed-in junk a voice floated over to him.

“Those fires out yet?”

What? He turned, called back, “not sure”. Wondered if this was someone who improbably recalled seeing him in previous years.

“You from Montreal?"

“Nope, not Montreal. I’m Canadian, though. From Ottawa.”

“Oh. Saw that logo on your tee-shirt. Thought you’d be a McGill alumni.”

Ah. “No”, he laughed. “Just wearing the shirt.” Second-hand; whoever had originally owned it likely had been to McGill, but not him.

“It was the smoke. From those Quebec forest fires.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, my wife woke up last Monday, said it smelled like someone had a wood-fire going. Not likely, in that heat and humidity, let alone that time of day. Then she said she thought it might be from the forest fires.”

“We had the same experience over here. You wouldn’t believe it, at this distance. Boston had it even worse. There were air quality alerts. People told to stay indoors."

“Sure, in Ottawa too. We had health alerts, people with asthma, the elderly. We heard the smoke had gone as far as Boston. Couldn’t believe it.”

“Believe it, I was there. Though we had it as bad here. Guess it was the way the wind shifted. Scary stuff. Especially for all those people they had to evacuate, I guess.”

“Yep, for sure. Reminds you of the Icelandic volcano spewing carbon all over Europe; flight chaos”, he responded, pleased with the analogy.

“Hell, no! Bostonians don’t miss a beat. It’s the American way“, scoffed the other. “Visibility was bad, you could hardly see the skyline. But all the boaters got their sailboats out on the Charles River. Nothing daunts them. All the runners were out jogging.”

He shrugged, grinned, agreed it would take a hell of a lot more than charred wood violating U.S. airspace to hinder life and recreation here. Went on nosing about the pathetic offerings, heavy on the ‘collectibles’, light on the ‘antiques’, despite the pride of signage.

He moved on to other aisles with shelving holding even less desirable offerings. But you never know, he always told himself, hope springing eternal in the expectations of an ‘antique hunter’.

Most group shops like this had their more authentic, pricey, 'desirable' items out front, closer to the front desk, and the entrance. The further into the interior the poorer the quality. And those establishments that boasted ‘three floors of antiques!’ had their dealers, obviously charged commensurately less for less desirable space, purveying ever more degraded-quality junk. Crap, he called it.

Toward the back of this vast, one-story building with its scores of dealers hawking hopefully, unrealistically priced items (on the obvious theory that there’s a buyer for almost anything) that never distinguished themselves by even notional quality of design, fabrication, creativity or material composition at absurdly inflated prices, he noticed an attractive young woman holding and closely examining an old golf club. Beside her, an old golf bag with a few other clubs within.

He approached, expressing mild admiration for her find. She looked at him gratefully, breathlessly confessing she was considering buying the bag and contents as a gift for her father’s birthday.

“Tell you a little story”, he said. “Interested how golf got its name?”

“Why yes, certainly I am. I’d like to hear that”, she responded, turning fully toward him.

“Scotland, that’s where golf was first played. The national game there”, he said knowingly.

“I think I may have heard that before”, she smiled.

“Sure you have”, he said. “But here’s how they named the game. The Scots were always fiercely militant. They originally used clubs like that to knock hell out of one another. Clan warfare. Kilts and clubs, that’s the Scots.”

She nodded gravely, listening carefully. He liked that. Playing homage to the distinguished-looking stranger’s obvious knowledgeability.

“Eventually they decided”, he continued, “to be more civil. Decided instead of bashing one another insensible with those clubs, they would whack at these hard little balls, the winner would lead the way to the clubhouse bar, loser would pay for all the evening’s rounds.”

“Neat”, she cooed. “That’s cool.”

“Wait, I’m not finished”, he admonished, trembling with delight. “You see, with those clubs they ‘flog’ that ball. Remember, they used to flog one another with those clubs? Before they decided it would be more fun to drink one another under the table than bash one another’s brains into jelly? They simply - some genius among them - decided to take the word ‘flog’ and symbolically turn it around See, ‘flog’, becomes ‘golf!”

“Well, hey, that’s terrific”, she enthused. “I really, really appreciate you telling me that. I love getting to know these things!”

He nodded, smiled graciously, quite smitten with his own erudite, spur-of-the-moment brilliance. And he responded in kind when she called after him “you have a good day, now!”

Peoples’ gullibility never failed to amaze him.

And damn, he would find nothing but crap here, this time.

Interludes

This not the benign nature that so
assiduously tends my garden, sweetly
offering gentle rains and abundant sun,
kindly soil conditions and minuscule
creatures within to nurture and bring to
brilliant maturity the trees and shrubs so
fruitful that delight our green experience.

That nature that sends us colourful
songbirds to nest in our garden trees
and hosts of insects, butterflies and
small, furry creatures to swell the
natural presence of all her subjects,
impressing us with her goodness of
purpose and integrity to her design.

This is another presence entirely, one
we cannot help but be aware of, yet as
remote and rare, not to be thought overmuch
of, a fearful, powerful and utterly destructive
presence, threatening to rescind her gracious
demeanor in favour of her domineering persona
devoid of purpose but to terrify her creatures
with the bleak certainty of her dread presence.

We hear the symptoms of her dreadful wrath,
the thunderous groan of the Earth as it convulses,
contracts and shudders under her impervious,
imperious direction. We feel the constancy of our
naive belief in our place challenged, as what was
solid and unmoving, writhes in an agony of violent
creep, collapsing and separating and shredding.

We see the darkly menacing vortex of the
hot breath she blows into a funnel cloud
voraciously sucking everything in its path
into chaotic re-distribution, reversing order;
what was assembled as a whole reduced to
its pathetic constituent parts, strewn brokenly
on a suddenly-sere landscape of despair.

These fearsome events leave us trembling
and trepidatious. Our clever technologies
laid bare to malfunction and disarray. Torrential
rains wash away landmarks and drown the
puny signatures of humankind's presence
leaving doleful regret and the misery of loss
in their wake. Nature effortlessly removes
and destroys what she has given. We begin
to understand our temporary ownership.

As placid nature, her violent outbursts spent,
reverses the geological and atmospheric
surroundings to reflect the soothing familiar,
hope, then the conceit of vanity, then scorn
and entitled empowerment settle back into
place as we assume again the settled ownership
and determined control of our earthly domain.

Suddenly...The Earth Moved

Suddenly, normalcy violently assaulted.
We, once more, catapulted into an
unfamiliar world of physical dissonance.
Together companionably in our house
when with no warning a monumental
sound and furious motion delivered us
to a place we had scant reckoning with.

That force assembled its resources to
utterly surround us with its long, loud
wall of shrieking sound and tottering
frailty against a trusted reality pantomiming
a deadly opponent. Our stark shock and
slow recognition betrayed complacent ease.

In a world where nature can assume
its threatening persona geared to respond
with cataclysmic force, like a powerful
presence suddenly awakened to a
morose and malicious mood. We’ve
faced these moods before; one might
surmise once exposed to such power and
danger sanguine attitude would be
forever buried in expectation, but no.

Taken by shock and surprise, we cannot
fathom what is occurring until the
fierce tremblor threatens to bring down
walls around us. We exit, and wait, lurk
as the motion and groans of the earth
are translated to the exterior; in the
atmosphere of motion and commotion,
deep creaks subside and stillness reigns.

Left with a foreboding and deep unease
at this brutal demonstration that we are not,
and never will be, masters in our own house,
we move trembling, awe-struck limbs and
furrowed brows back into our house.
To restore order where chaos so briefly had
charge, and pictures hang on crooked walls.

All the wall paintings, ajar. Fragile items
tipped, overturned, contents languidly
insensate, spilled. Our telecommunications
suddenly out of order, minds slowly reverting
to the ordinary comforts of an ordinary
summer day. The radio soon crackles with
the over-heated excitement of recent panic
stilled, and people begin to recount their
disbelieving reactions to our Earth’s
flirtation with geological intemperance.

Take This Bouquet

Old we may be, but out of touch
we are not. Our love, no longer fresh
after fifty-five years together, has
become a rare jewel we hoard and
treasure. It is bleakly inconceivable
that a day could dawn when your
mind is too otherwise-engaged, that
your face does not turn to me, smiling,
radiating pleasure through my own
eyes, the very marrow of my essence.

A wink from you and I become a
shy girl again. When you guide me
toward another space and music we
both recall as though so many yesterdays
are but today, your firm hold and my
reactive movement create a gentle,
loving dance. Your touch melts me
toward rhapsody, as we sway.

My mind commends me, not toward
rueful recognition of youth and vigour
dissipated in the mists of time, but
rather toward celebration at the
generous, pleasurable present. Each
day is another gift, one we meet headlong
and with the expectations due it.

Close to you, I am complete, and
there is no longing for what was.
Since what was inevitably created,
for us, what now indelibly is. Yet, what
is it, down there, softly interfering
with our glides, our fluid, synchronized
dance steps, our assured, light-headed,
heart-stopping movements, our
natural clinging to one another?

Something, some life-force has
finally succeeded in interceding
between our oneness of soul and
body. Tiny he may be, but resolute
as only a minuscule toy, male dog can
be, grasping my ankle, assured of
ownership of that suddenly desirable
object, exuding a sexuality that
the naughty devil well recognizes.

In Our Garden

There is song and movement in our
garden and there is fragrance and
beauty in colour and shape and texture,
all geared to overwhelming the aesthetic
within us, grateful for the presence of
nature’s gifts to us, generous beyond fault
seeming beyond our modest expectations.

From early morning until sundown our
garden is gifted with the presence of
flame-bright cardinals lofting themselves
from peaked roof of garden shed to shelter
of leafy trees, to coniferous tree masts,
lustily trilling, thrilling our sound-
conscious souls with their melodies.

Robins sing in reflection of the weather,
where rain brings the birds to rapturous
anticipation of worms fleeing their sodden
homes. Hot-pinked roses rising on their
garden trellises, clematis clinging and
scrambling over fences and the tongue-
flaming honeysuckle so beloved of those
dauntless, fragile hummingbirds.

We rapture over the glorious, huge roses in
strident reds, those lesser-sized in mellow
yellows, and tiny fairy roses in pale shades
of pink. Not to be overlooked, the anarchy-
inclined chaos of Canterbury bells, rose mallow,
chameleon vine and Ladies mantle, so self-
besotted they do not hesitate to hoist aside
and overgrow other garden worthies.

They are not alone in their caprices, when
huge-leafed, lime-hued hostas, smother the
Stella d’Oro and the ranunculous surrounding
the soil in which the hostas are nested, crowning
their presence as lords of all they survey. Ah,
but the lilies thrive, valiantly blooming in the sun
their ally, the hostas’ deadly leaf-blanching curse.

The presence of our garden stalwarts, while
still spring, the peonies, and fleabane, Persian
cornflower, beard-tongue, geraniums, foxgloves,
mallow, lilies, Shasta daisies, delphiniums,
Princess spirea, Jacob’s ladder, present their
faultless architecture and their brilliant hues
their texture and their fragrance for our
daily inspection and grateful delectation.

Nature's Elements

Rain, incessantly heavy rain do, we
beseech you, go away, for all the anxious
hikers, gear at the read, want to play.
Nature will have none of it. Fog envelopes
the landscape darkly, its webby fingers
reaching deep and far, its misty cousin
lifting long grey veils through mountain
valleys and thickly treed slopes.

The day darkly sinister, cool to lifting the
lofty mantle of clouds obscuring the
atmosphere where sky was so recently
endlessly blue. Swiftly succeeding thunder
claps, revelling in their dominance have
unleashed the fearsome power of rain,
pelting noisily over mountains and forests,
lakes and wetlands. Darkly billowing clouds
complacently screening mountain summits
from view, confusing the issue of where
geology ends and atmosphere begins.

Waterways and lakes lashed, surfaces
dented, boiling with the rage of violent
assault. Steel grey in colour, with pale
grey frothing waves mustering hapless
resistance to ephemeral but fearful
invasion; the inviolability of presence
interrupted by this hostile advance.

Travel, Broadens the Mind

Looked the same as it did every year. The huge viburnum was in bloom, so too a pale-striped-leaf dogwood. The viburnum’s flowers were on the fade-end of bloom, the dogwood’s just starting. It was always cooler there, set on a rise where the wind blew incessantly. The greensward had been freshly mowed, very short, and recently. Despite which, embedded with the grass, clover, buttercups and thyme were all in bright pink, purple and yellow flower. They could smell the herb-sharp fragrance of the thyme as they walked upon the grass.

Far more insistently pungent, the odour of cow manure, wafting on the wind from the farm sitting right adjacent the rest stop, nestled in the Green Mountains of Vermont. As they walked, a leash held by each of them, man and wife, glad to be able to stretch cramped limbs and get their little dogs to do the same, the shared ritual of admiring the specimen-quality oaks, maples and ornamental crabs commenced. He conscientiously scooped up into a small plastic bag the equally small deposit their very small black dog rid herself of. The little male was content to lift his tiny back leg proprietorially at every tree trunk they passed.

Really, the stench of cow offal was overpowering, she remarked to her husband. Who smiled indulgently at her, a ‘city girl’, who had never experienced living and working summers on a farm, as he had.

“I rather enjoy it”, he said. “Brings back good memories. Doesn’t bother me at all.”

A trifle smugly, she thought. “I know you do, don’t, respectively”, she sniffed.

The day was warming considerably. Usually, early June, it was much cooler up here, and often enough drizzling. No fear of that this day. They would eat their take-along brunch at one of the handily-placed picnic tables.

“I’ll just be a minute” he said, handing her the second leash. The little dogs made to follow him. She tugged lightly, to hold them back, seating herself on the bench-seat of the closest picnic table. The little dogs wandered as far as their leashes permitted under the table, crossing leashes. And she testily unravelled them.

‘Just a minute’, she knew from long experience, would be an interminable stretch, and she resigned herself to a considerable wait. She felt irritated by the heat, and the pestiferous presence of black flies and deer flies now revealing their presence, as she sat there, offering up her tender flesh. You’d think, she said to herself crankily, that the wind would keep them away. She kept flailing at them, on her neck, behind her ears, at her face. Thought how foolish she must appear, should anyone be watching.

It was a busy place, cars coming and going. People using the convenient presence of clean washrooms, picking up state-issued maps, tourist brochures. Doubtful, she said to herself that the drivers of those trailers, semi-trailers, tractor-trailers, would be interested in tourist brochures. The coffee however, that would be another matter. Her husband swore by the quality of the coffee there. She detested coffee. Her husband enthused, it was Green Mountain coffee; your choice of decaffeinated, regular or hazelnut-flavoured. Not my choice, she responded dryly. She would make do with the thermos of hot tea sitting in the trunk. Her cup of tea, as it were.

A line of heavy trucks sat beyond the area where cars parked. Huge metal beasts, some carrying immense pieces of machinery, others logs, idled loudly, spewing carbon and rattling the air.

She had appreciated the brisk bonhomie of the young uniformed customs-immigration official - although they called them border inspectors now - at the Darby Line crossing who had casually screened their passports, questioned their destination, their origin, glanced into the car interior, noting the little dogs, scrutinizing their proffered documentation. A far cry from the usual rudely dour uniforms who so often screened them. She had leaned forward on her seat to view him more clearly and thanked him for his ‘refreshing’ attitude.

The young man had barely paused, beaming back “Have a good trip!”

He deposited the little plastic bag into the waste container sitting outside the doors to the tourist rest area. As he entered, he casually vetted the interior; unchanged from their last trip. A very young woman, pretty, delicate of build and wearing, he noted - for he was a conscientious people-connoisseur - very brief black shorts and improbably teetery high-heeled shoes. He noted also that a metal circlet of heavy keys dangled from a belt at her waist. He smiled directly at her. It was what he did.

Immediately the thought flashed his mind; she was exiting the ladies’ washroom, an inauspicious time to have one’s presence acknowledged. She scowled back at him, before peremptorily turning directly for the door, heels clicking angrily, imperiously he felt, on the stone floor. Before she left taking no notice of anyone else in the chamber, not the genial woman standing before the enquiry desk, nor the tourists milling about, nor yet the young man she passed entering as she exited. He was also a casual student of human psychology and he put that little performance down to an uncertain person's self-conscious display of psychological self-defence; a distancing from any who might find question in her appearance. Nothing needing defence there, he mentally shrugged.

He certainly had other things to think about. His wife’s unwillingness to embark on the trip, for example. Her seemingly growing frailty, sudden spells of dizziness, flashes of temper, fears and uncertainties. Her willing admission to him that she was herself puzzled at the fear that seemed to envelop her, looming seemingly out of nowhere. Her lack of energy, however, she tended to laugh off as “sclerotic old age”.

He hoped getting away would be good for her, take her out of her brooding moodiness. Despite her lack of enthusiasm for this trip he counted on it having an enlivening effect on her. Her usual exhilaration at being in the out-of-doors, away, the change of scenery and surrender to the pleasures of mountain trails would do it for her. It always had. She had a deep-seated need that way. He should know, he had ample opportunity to observe her over the years. Since they were kids, growing up together. Her mood would be rejuvenated, her energy and enthusiasm restored. He believed that.

He was not certain, but thought it likely that the woman sitting at the information counter was the very one he had spoken with last year at this same time. Effusively pleasant, eager to talk, generous with her smiles. Bored, no doubt, sitting there for long hours, he surmised. She informed him breathlessly that it was a wonder they still had brochures left for the taking. Two full busloads of high school students had come through that very morning, from Montreal. Rambunctious and excited, on their way through to a week-end in Boston. Polite kids, she hastened to assure him, as though they were his.

His wife decided she would move to another table, see if she could escape the black flies. Perhaps right where she was sitting, that was the problem. She gathered the little dogs, moved off to another table much closer to the building. Predictably, it made little difference, and she resigned herself to the nuisance, awaited her husband’s re-appearance. Many people passed through the doors; her husband not among them. She sighed, not in exasperation, not entirely. She was glad he enjoyed speaking with people, did not begrudge him any such opportunities, however fleeting - he was that gregarious.

She noted a young woman whom she had seen earlier enter, exit, and repeat this several times. Their eyes caught and they exchanged smiles. Her back to the parking lot, facing the greensward and the farm beyond, the mountain tops further still, she heard an odd, rhythmic clattering, idly wondered what it might be, but was constrained by not wanting to appear nosy, from ostentatiously turning around to determine the source.

She became aware of an audible intake of breath, a giggle, and did then turn to her right, to see the same woman, dressed in knee-length twill shorts, a brightly patterned three-quarter sleeve tee-shirt, rapidly approaching her.

“Did you see that?” she demanded.

“Did I see … what?” What was it I should have seen, she wondered, looking at the other woman’s bemused, hugely amused countenance.

”That woman! She just came out of the building.”

“No, I wasn’t looking in that direction.”

The woman looked disappointed. “You didn’t see her?” she asked, incredulously.

“Why no, I did not. Why? Why are you asking?”

And it came bubbling out, brimming with mirth, with glee, with what - admiration?

“This woman, delicate, slightly built, young, long blonde hair. Wearing a really short black pencil skirt. She was wearing black stiletto heels!”

“Oh.”

“Well, no, that’s not all”, the excited woman before her gushed. “I watched her cross over the tarmac, headed for where the rigs are parked. You know, those big tractor trailers?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I thought, you know, kind of like reasoning to myself, guess some long-distance driver picked himself up a juicy away-from-home prospect. You know, for a ‘casual companion’?”

“Oh!?”

“Well, that wasn't it! I watched her, in that skirt, those stiletto heels. She clambered up into the cab. On the driver’s side. There’s no one else in there. Just her! Look, there she goes, she’s pulling away!”

She turned herself awkwardly, yanking at the little dogs' leashes in the process, to look in the direction the woman was pointing. Yes, the largest of the lot, pulling out, pulling down the ramp, stopping at the confluence of the highway, then off and away.

She turned to look at the woman standing beside her. Felt the same goofy grin paste itself over her own face, to match the other’s. And they chorused a good, loud chortle: Hey there, girl!

The Mountain Storm

Finally, the storm that had roiled
and railed throughout night's
passage into the dim light of dawn
begins to wear out its incendiary,
bellowing passion. The half-drowned
world below the weeping cauldron of the
sky lifts its sodden head in relief.

Dripping ceaselessly from the night's
assault, the relentless drumming
of the dark sky, as black clouds defied
one the other's domination, like the
clash of ferocious Titans, the world
shook itself and soon the dense
cloak of fog slunk away, leaving a
shimmering veil of mist to accede to
the strengthening sun's imperious
command to summarily depart.

Rivers of rainwater, storm water,
the blood of that celestial combat,
tumbled down mountain slopes,
gathering momentum and thundering
and tossing, hauling all unsecured in
their wake, trees and shrubs and
rocks and soil all submitting to the
fury and the majesty of Nature's
imperious anomalous tantrums.

The tumbling mountain streams,
icy, swollen beyond their narrow fluted
confines, hurtle through and over, beyond
and between time-and-water-scarred,
stony-ridged passages, on the remote,
impervious mountain slopes. Boulder-
strewn and tree-stumped, the excited
wide and running, tumbling rivers
thrash over all in their riotous passage.

Great steaming, boiling cauldrons of
water rushing to the great beyond of the
world's vast seas and waterways, stream
and steam, carrying in their irresistible
grip the unresistant detritus of forested
slopes, thundering the atmosphere,
flailing all in their path, enjoining Nature's
chaos as she wills it, when she does.

Weathering the Weather

The great bowl of the sky churned
and whipped itself into a frenzy of
forces that only Nature can command.
As though two great imperial armies,
heavily equipped with weaponry
whose power equals the contest
between two irredentist adversaries
intent on finally vanquishing each one
the other's might, met on a celestial
battlefield: heavenly Armageddon.

The sky's temper became increasingly
maddened, assembling darkly threatening
clouds, ionizing the atmosphere to a
degree that withdrawal was no longer an
option, leading to gigantic clashes, goading
opposition to react, to feint, to move beyond
redemption with onlookers in awed suspense.
Those ferocious heavenly forces enjoined in
the violent grip of an anger unmatched by
the puny efforts of humankind's puerile
battlefields, fuelled an upheaval of disorder.

Thunderous roars daring the lesser,
cowering forces of biddable order laid waste
to hope and charity, as civil defence made
muted, futile overtures availing nothing
to diminish the fierce, unstoppable advance
of the clashing furies above. Vicious clatters
and rolling booms aided by long daggers
of fiery light, momentarily brighten the
bitterly dark atmosphere heavy with
sinister purpose. The portals of hell unleashed
the doomed redoubt of heavenly accord as
sound and fiery lightspears and heaven's
host engulfed the sad, quavering landscape.

Greg Said It Would Be Fine

Greg said it would be fine. The place was perfect for us. We would be sharing it - co-tenanting, he called it - with people we know. He knows them, anyway. They weren’t exactly friends. More like casual acquaintances. But they were nice. Older than her, but then Greg’s a whole lot older than her, too. Oh, not a whole lot, but older. Let’s see: he’s eight years older than her. That’s kind of a lot, at the age they are. But she likes it that he’s older. He’s had experiences she has never had. Wouldn’t ever, anyway, since they’re mostly guy experiences. But she really didn’t like the guys around her age. They were like kids, juvenile delinquents for the most part, that’s how she thought of them.

When she first met Greg she could hardly believe he would be interested in her. But he was. A little like a big brother at first. He kidded around a lot. But there was something about him, something that told her that he felt there was more to her, for him, than that kind of relationship. It took long enough to get going, but it did. She happened to see a lot of him because she happened to be over at her friend Yvonne’s place a lot.

So when Greg said that the house was perfect for them, it was. They had the ground floor, Edith and Robert had the top floor. He would help her start a nice garden, he said. When she felt she had the time. Not just yet. He knew how involved she was, just getting used to having a baby. It was as though he could understand how she felt, as though her life had been ambushed by events that just seemed to happen before she even realized they were happening.

She felt swept along by everything, as though she was somewhere else, not in her body, like those out-of-body experiences she had read about, when people died, and their spirits floated above their body and they observed what was happening, with people mourning their dead body. And then something happened and the spirit slipped back into the body and they were somehow saved from death. They saw a blinding light, something like that. They were given another opportunity to live.

She wasn’t sure she believed anything like that. That it could happen like that. But she could imagine it, in a way. And it’s possible that thinking of that made her feel as though something similar had happened with her. As though somehow her life had taken a turn and she was unable to do anything about it, just accept what was happening. As long as she had Greg, really, she didn’t mind. He makes her happy. And he knows that. He told her time and again how much she means to him.

She depends on him, on his judgement. He knows so much that she has no inkling about. Just living with him is an experience in educating herself about so many things. He always seems to know the right thing to do, somehow. And she respects that in him. She always waits for his advice, to hear from him how he thinks about things before she makes up her mind. He’s always telling her she should have more confidence in herself, in her ability to work things out for herself. She’s intelligent in her own right, and she should recognize that in herself, he says. There’s nothing whatever wrong in her ability to discern things.

Well, when she had been cautious around the two dogs from upstairs he had gently taken her in hand, shown her how quiet and non-threatening they were. Two huskies. You’d think with two dogs Edith and Robert would prefer to live downstairs, not up on the second floor. Easier access to the outside with the dogs, that kind of thing. They really doted on those dogs. And, she learned, it was true, they were quiet dogs, never bothered anyone. She would often be startled though, feeling that someone was in the room with her - the kitchen, for example - and she would turn around and there they would be, looking in at her from the doorway, watching her, their alternate blue-green eyes focused on her as though they were interested in what she was doing.

She never wanted to encourage them. So she would turn her back and ignore them, and they would quietly pad away, back upstairs. They weren’t supposed to come down to their part of the house. They sometimes did, anyway, when Edith or Robert were careless, not aware of where their dogs were. Greg said not to mind, just to think of them as kind of phantom presences. They made little sound, no bother to them.

And they were used to us, to seeing us around all the time, in any event. We often invited Edith and Robert to dinner, and they reciprocated. Sometimes we’d have a barbecue and invite other neighbours over, too. It’s a nice street, with nice houses and nice people. Lots of small kids around, too.

There’s an elementary school only a street away. It’s where we plan to send our own kids, when we have them, and when they are old enough. And that might be a good time for me to return to school, to do a little catch-up. Because I would like to finish my Grade 12. Greg thinks I should, he says it’s a good idea. Just to have the paperwork because, he says, I’m smart enough and know enough and can pick up enough on my own. He says I should consider life itself an ongoing education. He’s that smart. It works for him, although he’s got a university degree.

“You keep selling yourself short”, he keeps telling me. “You’re a whole lot more intelligent than you think you are, and I should know”, he says.

“If you say so”, I tell him.

“I do!” he always says, hugging me. I love it when he does that. Not telling me I’m smart, but when he’s so impulsive, when he grabs me, and hugs me, and kisses me, and holds me close. I just adore it when he does that. He cherishes me, he says. Imagine that, being cherished. I told my mother that once, what he says to me. And she laughed.

“That’s nice”, she said. “We’ll see how long that lasts, before everything gets to feel kind of stale, and you along with it.”

I was really offended. “That’s an awful thing to say!”

“Well, honey-child, awful it may sound to you, but it’s the truth. You’re just a kid, it’s puppy-love.”

“Greg’s no kid. He’s pretty adult, he’s a mature adult, and he loves me and doesn’t mind telling me that.”

“Yes, you’re kind of lucky, that way. It’s always nice to hear. Good for the old ego. But trust me, I’m your mother, I’ve seen a whole lot you couldn’t ever begin to imagine. I’ve had the experiences, I know what it’s like once the bloom of an early marriage loses its appeal. Best to know, better to be prepared, than to have it hit you in the face.”

“Mom! What you’re saying happened to you, it isn’t going to happen to me!”

“You think so? Well, you’re not alone, you’ve got plenty of company. Things always start out sweet and cozy before they begin to deteriorate, and once that happens, the relationship degrades so fast your head will spin.”

“Why are you telling me these things? Why are you speaking about these things to me? My relationship with Greg is on firm ground and nothing is going to change that. I don’t challenge him and berate him and blame him the way you always did with Dad. I don’t make his life a living misery!” I didn’t want to say those things, but I felt I had to, to defend myself, and to defend Greg, too for that matter.

Mom shrugged. Sometimes she knows when she’s gone too far. After that she was non-committal, non-confrontational.

Not long after that my pregnancy was over. In the sense that our baby was born. I could hardly believe it. For that matter, nor could Greg. He didn’t care that we had a baby girl, it was just the same to him. He was thrilled, out-of-his-mind happy. We had agreed I’d stay home for the baby. At least for a while, maybe until she is two or three, he thinks. Longer, if I want to It’s up to me, he says. He would be happy if I wanted to just stay at home, look after the baby for as long as I want to. Our baby.

And, he said, there might be more, more kids if I’d be agreeable. He would like a family of at least a few kids. As for me, I’m not sure. What I want, I mean. I mean, in a sense I’m still just a kid myself. That’s what I meant, when I said I felt as though I’d been ambushed. Ambushed right out of my teen years, is what I meant.

But on the other hand, I guess you could say I went into this with my eyes wide open. I’m no dunce, I know about restraint and contraceptives, all of that. But when I’m with Greg, it’s like that’s all I want out of life. He’s considerate and sensitive to my feelings, and I have complete trust in him. We talked about all of this, beforehand.

So it’s something we both wanted, a baby, a child we would love and share. It’s just that, sometimes, I think it’s too much, too soon. Oh, I know my mom had me when she was 18, so I’m kind of a year and a little more ahead of her. I know, because she has told me so often, that she resented me coming along, as though I had anything to do with it. I will never, ever feel that way about Melody.

It’s true I’m feeling really tired all the time. But what else to expect, she’s only six weeks old. She has needs that I’ve got to tend to, because I am, after all, her mother. But it is tiring, and it’s a lot to get used to. There’s so much to think about, to remember to do, looking after her. Greg is good, he helps whenever he can, when he’s home from work, and on the week-ends. But I don’t like to ask him to do things that I can do, after all he works hard, too.

Anyway, Melody has changed a whole lot of things. There’s no more spontaneity, about anything, anything at all. We’re disciplined now in a way we’ve never had to be. In observation of her schedule. And we worry about her all the time. Any sounds she makes that we’re not familiar with, and try to interpret. If she’s eating all right, and, you know, the other stuff; changing her diaper constantly. Diaper rash, that’s another thing to look out for.

My breasts are swollen, and my nipples are sore. She’s emphatically taken to nursing. I have experienced none of the problems I’ve read so much about. She latched on without much prompting on my part. She can find her own way around the landscape of my upper body. She sucks, and the milk flows.

Her tiny fists clench themselves into hard little balls of determination. Greg adores her. She’s healthy and that’s so important to us. We want her to have every opportunity that life can offer her. She’s such a teeny, tiny thing, yet Greg has talked about university already. He thinks she could be a scientist, a lawyer, anything she wants because she’ll have the brains and we’ll stimulate her to think for herself and be ambitious to achieve anything she aspires to.

I don’t quite know what to do. Everything seems utterly pointless. As though the future has simply evaporated into nothingness. It all seems so black, so bleak, without any hope. And I don’t know how to console Glen. Even though my heart feels as though it’s been torn out of my chest, and my head won’t stop aching, he seems more inconsolable than me. He just sits there. He won’t do anything, nothing at all, won’t move from where he sits, mourning. It was hard enough, the funeral, her little casket, holding whatever was left of her tiny frail body, so dependent on us, on me. We got through that. I’ve no memory of it, actually. People were kind. That dimly penetrated. Hushed, whispered sounds, little else.

I am awfully tired, but I know this is a tight spot I’ve got to get over. It’ll get a whole lot easier as she gets a little older. It’s this first bit of her existence, our little girl, when her mother is still groping around for self-assurance, responding to those demanding needs. The insecurity will pass, I know, partly because Greg encourages me to believe that, and partly because I know it will, and then I’ll be more confident, less stressed, less tired.

Getting up in the early hours of the night and morning is difficult, but that won’t last, either, as she matures and her feedings become a little more regularized, organized, less time-sensitive. I know that, because I’ve read it in some really good baby books. That’s Greg again, anxious for me to be reassured, to have all the information I need. He knows how much of a reader I am, omnivorously reading everything I can get my hands on, just latterly diverted to reading books like this. And barely having the time, now, even for that.

When my mother came over late last week, she fussed a bit over the baby. Actually, it was only the second time she saw Melody. The way she took to her almost made me warm entirely to my own mother. To edge slightly beyond the emotional gulf I’ve always felt that strained our relationship.

She watched while I nursed Melody, and said how old-fashioned I was. I just shrugged, changed her diaper, got her ready for sleep. It’s the best nutrition a baby could have, the most natural, and it beings us both, I know, emotional fulfilment. I can’t say that to my mom, she would just raise her eyebrows as she always does, and express that gruff, cynical laugh of hers. We just don’t think alike, strange as that is.

She picked up her purse and I knew exactly what she planned to do.

“No smoking here, Mom.”

“Aw, forgot. Well, how about we go out to the deck, I can smoke there, can’t I?”

“Sure, Mom, go ahead.”

“Well, c’mon, I want you to come with me. The baby’s been fed, she’s sleeping, and secured. Just leave her there, and come on out with me. So we can talk.”

Talk, I wondered. What about? Anything and nothing. Mom likes to talk. Mostly about herself. I just shrugged, made sure Melody was fastened into her car seat securely, tucked the blanket closer around her, set the car seat on top of the table, leaned over to kiss her moist little forehead, and followed mom out the sliding door. The deck is right alongside the kitchen. I left the glass door slightly ajar.

“I’ve moved back in with Jack again”, Mom announced. “I think he’s learned his lesson. He begged me to come back. I’m easy.”

She’s a great one for teaching high-decibel “lessons”. My childhood years were fraught with the fall-out of those lessons. Directed toward Dave, my dad, and me as well. High-pitched declarations of being fed up with being hard done by. Nothing anyone ever did, around her seemed to satisfy her. She found fault with everything, and her screams would echo throughout the house, deafening us, as we cringed helplessly under one assault after another. I wasn’t sorry to leave home.

“How long is that supposed to last?” I asked, recalling the succession of men she has lived with since the final separation from my dad. I’ve lost count. One relationship after another, all of them collapsed. Emotional investments gone awry.

She shrugged. “As long as it does”, she responded. She liked to talk about how abusive men were, how much she had put up with trying to find the perfect mate, someone who would respect her many endowments, someone she could rely upon. She had no problem netting men. They were always attracted to her good looks, sharp wit, her dramatic flair. And no mistaking her qualities as far as her professional work ethic and capabilities. She always brought home the bacon; her salary level far exceeding that of the men she took up with.

She always said how disappointed she was that I had interrupted my education, that she anticipated more intelligence from me. In a sense, I regret that too, but I do intend to remediate the situation as soon as I can, return to school, and then enrol in college courses. I can do it, I know I can, and I will.

We talked, she smoked her cigarette and I made to return to the kitchen, but she held me back. “Relax” she said, “for God’s sake. Take a break from that routine of yours. The baby is sleeping soundly, just sit there and take it easy.” She had another cigarette.

When, some 20 minutes later we returned from outside it was to find a silent chaotic scene of pure hell. Silence screamed. The dull, heavy thud of my life collapsing fell over me, and I almost evaporated at the sight of evil. The sinister, blood-curdling scene of a dog slinking out of the room, silently padding away, leaving its prey, my baby, half consumed, unrecognizable from the beautiful tiny human that I had left, become an object some lunatic hand had fashioned out of dead clay, with a swirling display of garish bloody guts spilling from its interior; a model for medical science to teach its practitioners the inner mechanism of a human body.

I felt my mother’s arms pulling me, one of her hands open, clasping my eyes so I could no longer see. I heard a horrible keening shrieking sound, and wondered why my mother was screeching so horribly, since no one had done anything wrong. I felt myself fall, while being supported, and then there was nothing more to feel, to hear, to see, to acknowledge.

I read the headlines later, much later. I don't know who had saved them, carefully cut them out, and set them away for, presumably, later scrutiny. They went something like this: "Excellent mother" charged in death"; "Quebec teen found her baby mauled by dogs". I have been arraigned in a youth court on a charge of manslaughter.

Greg is frantic. He got me a lawyer. In court, the lawyer said "She lost her baby yesterday and less than 24 hours later she is arrested and charged. She found her baby dead, devoured by a dog. It's a sight she will surely never forget."

The Crown prosecutor explained to the media that the manslaughter charge stemmed from my failure to provide "the necessities of life" to my baby, resulting in Melody's death.

Roots and Rocks

They reach everywhere, dark and
contorted, a wide-reaching tangle
of roots splaying over the steep
mountain trail. The better to trip
the unwary, unheeding hiker. But
this is, after all, the habitat of these
looming forest giants, the pines and
hemlocks, maples and beech whose
offspring luxuriate under their
forbears' canopy, in the rich organic
soil of earlier such great species,
felled by time and woodsmen.

Step lightly and be aware not only
of those strangling roots threatening
the progress of intrepid bipedal advance,
but the rocks scattered on the landscape
surrounded by the granite peaks from
whose slopes they were dislodged many
ages ago. Consider the rocks, so deeply
embedded, stepping stones for the
breathless ascent to the mountain's far
summit, well above the treeline.

Listen in the process, to the fresh
clear sound of the cold mountain
stream as it too tumbles over boulders
interrupting downward passage,
sending cool spray to vaporize into
the air from the waterfalls thus
created, where mosses grow thick,
green and lush over trunks and soil.

Hear the thrushes' songs reverberate
through the forest, see the flight of an
Eastern Kingbird, a downy woodpecker.
Note the presence of oaks siding the
trail as you rise, and the prevalence
of tiny chipmunks whisking their way
over the roots and the rocks, their element.

There are, in the undergrowth, dogwood,
sensitive ferns, moose maple and sumac.
Beside the trail, dank, wet, rich bog and
here and there, lilies and orchids, blackberry
canes and blueberry patches. The ascent
steeper, more dauntingly arduous,
the trees stunted in weather-agonized
shapes. Oak and azalea thrive, along with
laurel and small, twisted pines. Mountain
sorrel blooming, and birds on the wing.

The terrain becomes bare with huge
granite ledges and wide, smooth slopes;
rainwater captured in small, ubiquitous
granite sinkholes. Gaze, from this height,
on the miniature landscape far below.
Count, if you can, neighbourly peaks
marching into the far distance.

Marvel at the wide, deep bowl of the
over-arching sky, the placid white and
fringed clouds, hastily moving off to
make way for others, more aggressively
dark and hostile. Tree roots there are
none here, but a glut of tiny, delicate
alpine plants. Of rock there is a defined,
defiant and deliberate presence.

Impressions

Interesting, matching supermarket
grocery-carts by their contents, to
the people pushing them. Cause for
smug superiority, like the appearance
on urban streets of the obese strolling
along, lapping at an over-filled ice-cream
cone, wolfing down take-out pizza,
hamburgers, with all fixings intact.

Have they never heard of appetite
restraint? Eating themselves into
morbidity, whacking their futures,
patterning their offspring to vulgarly
immediate consumption. In a world
where temptation is everywhere, good
common sense has succumbed to greed
and heedless urges for satisfaction
well exceeding satiety and logic.

There is the shopper: young, attractive
grossly ponderous in height and girth,
shopping cart brimming with all those
notorious products aimed at vulnerable
kids through ubiquitous advertising.
One, however, with full knowledge and
concern, does not casually condemn.
Despite which, the assumption is made:
this consumer is an unintelligent fool.

Your cart unloaded, its virtuous contents
of fresh produce predominating, a total
absence of pre-prepared "convenience"
foods absent nutrition, weighted with salt,
sugar, fats, in favour of only natural,
preparation-untampered foods; this is
your superior choice. Reach across to
grasp the bar to separate your choices
from that of the next shopper's faux food.

The large young woman beams with
gratitude, "thank you" chiming from her
bow-shaped lips in a completely spontaneous
charming lilt of obvious sincerity. Not much
of an effort to elicit such an acknowledgement,
you observe, and she trills with laughter,
claiming civility worth its weight in gold.
A response worthy of a noble prize for
social attitude. Gaining from you an
relaxed grin of total acceptance.

When your purchase rings through at
$132.28, and you proffer $150 in U.S. bills
and innocently enquire whether Canadian
coinage is acceptable: one quarter, 3 pennies,
the cashier frowns, seeks advice from a
supervisor who briskly advises this to be
a disallowed irregularity. The errant shopper
behind you, she of the morbidly obese shape
and cupid smile, urges upon your unwilling
hand 28 cents in U.S. coin. A valuable,
required and kind lesson in due humility.

The Winged Forest

The clear, ringing peal of a blue jay
dissipates the silence of the woods,
as from its perch it asserts ownership
of all it surveys. Soon, however,
winging silently off in search of
another perch for a repeat performance
clearly besotted with its idea of self
as master of its leafy-treed landscape.

A nestling crow, newly acquainted
with wide spaces and the emerging
buoyancy of its tender but boldly
outspread wings flies awkwardly from
branch to branch of an old pine, the
young bird's continual quacks of
querulous demands driving its hovering
parents to frantic distractionary tactics.

There, the sun ablaze in the vast blue
sky, sending shafts of pure gold through
the dense forest canopy to light up
four goldfinches, on the branches of a
neat little Hawthorn, like lemons
growing on a lemon tree - with the
fragrance of sweet pears wafting from
the blooming bedding grasses below.

Elsewhere in this summer forest, a
cardinal's high, sweet trill excites the
atmosphere, and the response is swift
and bright, as the pair take flight in
scarlet passage deeper into the
embracing, emerald-green woods.

Robins, a family of juveniles loathe to
take wing, scatter bipedally in short,
purposeful bursts along the forest trail.
They forage among the cinquefoil, the
buttercups and blooming clover, sending
up startled blue, winged creatures whose
concern is to avoid becoming a meal;
intent upon their very own life journey.