Walking through the bunchgrass. Walking through the sagebrush. Walking over the bed of an ancient sea. Looking at a supernova. Looking at planetary clusters. Looking at the solar system. Looking at the starry carpet of the night sky. Meeting a red dwarf on the path. Stopping for a moment. Meeting the sun beside Coyote’s trail. Spider lives in the sun. Walking an old story. People call it poetry now. It’s not. Neither is this an insect. People call this nature now. It’s not. You can’t walk with Wasp if you call it nature. You can’t walk with the earth if you call her Nature.
And yet there are all these words.
That’s not poetry. This is poetry.
Human Version of a River
That’s not Nature. This is Nature:
Pigeon Guarding its Barbecue Along the Rail Line
What a Lot of Words in One Place!
This, though, is an older story. This is the star road. Here’s a star being born.
Here’s the sun. We are within him, yet he has shape.
There’s the moon. Really. There she is. (Click to enlarge, if that helps. It could be that the technology you are using is not very good at seeing the moon.)
The earth is dying, because the words are about people now. Oh, she’s not dying all at once. She still feathers.
She still stars.
In all the green cheatgrass stealing her water, stealing her words away, she is still among the stars.
Still standing still. Ancient.
Here’s some images of her I made early one morning in March, when I mistakenly flipped the wrong switch on my camera, and found it was the right one. Here she is among the stars.
Here’s one of her words there.
There still are.