"Spring Has Sprung"

Spring blew in on the wings of storms delivering 40 mile an hour gusts of wind. We had battened down the hatches in preparation. Visitors here at our cabin in the woods have also prepared for the blustering arrival of our change of season. The woods was evolving, bursting with new life. We were waiting for our first sign of the unwelcome chiggers. The bunkhouse remodeling was in the planning stages. Bill and Chris from,"Helping Hand," Bill business, were signed up to do the work. Lee, our pastor, mentor had been here to fix our solar gate and George, our singer, song writer painter was scheduled to come to touch up a paint job. Everything seemed to be tip top. It is best we don't always know the future.
Gypsy had buried all her bones in or near my "Angel Patch" flower garden which is inside her fence. She was patroling even when she looked like she was asleep on her pink sheepskin bed we had moved to the porch which is also inside her fenced area. The weather had warmed to the point where she could spend most days outside. She also stayed alert when she was resting inside the cabin on her favorite blanket tucked into her navy, blue, leather sofa. She is a fine and perhaps the only example of a well disciplined, unspoiled dog. The fact that she rules and totally controls me is completely insignificant. We were happy. We thought everything was going well. That was until an unexpected problem arrived from the woods.
One day Bill and Chris came to work on the bunkhouse. We decided to check out the only room, other than an outdoor kitchen, in another building, the smoke house. This was the only building on our five acres we had not yet investigated. We were pretty sure some critter was living there. Bill had a thing that looked like an antenna, about three feet long. Chris had one of my old, gray, metal crutches, and I had a broom. Armed we headed for the smokehouse nestled back in a quiet section of the woods. Bill opened one of the window shutters on the side of the enclosed room. The screen had been torn off. This should have been a clue. In the middle of this room was a raised mattress, covered with a blue tarp. Bill took the antenna and reached in the window and started to move the tarp. Something ran out and up the wall and out a hole in the ceiling. We saw a flash, so we were not sure what it was. I screamed and ran, Chris positioned his crutch to fend off whatever might appear and Bill jumped back a few steps. We carefully reconnoitered at the window. What was it? We held a pow-wow before proceeding on to our next step. Bill once again reached inside the window with the antenna. He slowly started to pull the tarp off of the bed. Nothing more moved. He then gingerly pulled off the sleeping bag that was covering the mattress. There was a hole in the middle of the mattress about a foot in diameter amd probably a foot deep. Inside were several baby squirrels. When exposed they did what mom had told them to do and tucked themselves in real deep. We watched, they did not move. Now, is this a perfect spot to start a new life? You bet! Bill covered the babies with the soft down sleeping bag and then the tarp. We quietly left the area laughing at our bravery. We hadn't yet thought that these little squirrels would eventually leave their nest. Time passed and we forgot about the baby squirrels. Then one day they left their nest. These little darling started a full frontal attack on Gypsy inside her fenced area. They ran all over her trees flaunting themselves often times just inches from her nose. They disreguarded her points. They sat on the bird feeder and ate in front of her. They sat in her bird bath and drank time after time. They ran across the top of her fence. They ran to the last tree before the fence, hit the ground and escaped her wrath finding just the right spot to go under. They ran on the roof of her cabin. She was sure she has tasted squirrel fur. However, she was focusing on the blood and gut scenario. They entertained her all day, leaving her exhausted. She now has new dreams as darkness sends us to bed here in the quiet cabin in our woods. As sleep overtakes her, her eyes and mouth begin to twitch. She sees baby squirrels everywhere, scolding her and flashing their tails at her. Humiliating her! She must catch one! There are so many now, not just the two we use to see. Surely one of these is for her? She holds her point waiting for one of them to make just the smallest mistake. She thinks she is a good girl and will be rewarded. She knows the God of dogs is on her side. Her dream ends with a squirrel clenched tightly in her mouth. She thinks she is lucky to have wish come true dreams. She slept late that morning. Such is life in your dreams here at the cabin in the woods.
A hummimgbird scout came the last week of March. He found the feeder I put up and also the one my eight year old grandson Kody put up. The hummingbird claimed them. Now the other hummingbirds have come and the battle for the claimed feeders has begun. They are beautiful to watch, never ceasing to amaze us. I will see them later when the morning glories are blooming outside the window where I write. They will come and say hello as they stop and look in the window. I am never sure how they are able to hover in one spot like they do, a bird helicopter.
The baby rabbits were playing near the thick cover by the edge of the woods. At fists I thought they were squirrels. However, the movement did not quite match that of a squirrel. So, I got the binoculars and checked. Sure enough two more Spring arrivals were out and about enjoying a beautiful day with Gypsy and me. They were wise enough to play a long way away from Gypsys fenced area. We had seen a very large cottontail at the feeding area near Gypys fence earlier in the week. Probably mom or pop to these baby rabbits. They have the biggest, blackest, round eyes I have ever seen, sort of like a shark. Rabbits can almost see their entire perimeter because their eyes are set on the sides of their heads. They have incredible patience to remain sitting and wait. Like Gypsy on a point. Like the mother squirrel who waited for the intruders to leave before returning to her nest of babies. Like a hummimgbird waiting for a poacher. Benjamin Franklin said it,"Patience is a virtue." We patiently wait.

"Wild Blue Yonder"

filmstrips stack
a thin strip of life
held on the racks
of joy and strife

cameras are eyes
recording moves
under the sky
finding the grooves

lenses are focusing
automatically
silently rotating
searching to see

paying a toll
stopping at lights
shopping at malls
boarding flights

parking lot scenes
where films stop time
the steetlights beam
revealing a crime

we can't escape
they want to know
where we are going
fast or slow

this day will show
what we never see
watching us go
never letting us be

it's big brother
he alive and well
waiting for another
story to tell

some mysteries sealed
caught on the frame
all is revealed
end of the game

don't handcuff us yet
we haven't seen all
our lives are not over
we are having a ball

watch from the start
there's much you won't see
what lives in our hearts
will keep us free

cameras let us be
to freely wander
so you can see
our wild blue yonder

"The Porch"

our porch holds the story
teaching our tale
held by circumstance
wanting understanding
seeking validation
losing the flight
where others fell
lost in the woods
grasping for what was
searching the future
finding its offer
unable to call
afraid we might fall
searching ourselves
out on our porch

thunder and lightnig
the storm is here
watching from the porch
in the darkness
flashing like a TV screen
after the movie ends
motion as we sleep
never stopping
no place to go
pictureless minds dreamimg
not reading the footnotes
no time to waste
watching from the porch
seeing yourself
before it's too late
our hopscotch fate

white winged dove
finding a path
into Gypsy's mouth
brought to me
on the cabin porch
hunting dog hunting
proud as punch
for all to see
feathers do not lie
certainty exists
she does not know
she is free to be
a bird dogs job
a good girl you see
Like me

Gypsy killed a lizard
it made a mistake
leaving its dark place
under the log
in the Angel Patch
my secret garden
near the porch
where lizards live
playing dead to survive
fooling her mind
in the secret part
where arrows don't point
and roads don't go
Where we all survive



wasps in the bedroom
on the warm windows
overlooking the porch
scratching at the glass
seeing escape
trapped in life
cinnamon and clove
leaching their effort
usurping their lives
a ryhthmic cycle
their syncope
intermediate death
like us

bees on the flowers
in pots on the porch
play around my hands
buzzing their story
we don't hear
as they disappear
where are they going?
why are they going?
chemicals to protect the crops?
For us to consume?
From deaths loom
woven in the cloth
that wrap our bodies
straight line for life
a story of doom

ringed turtle dove
California refugee
pushed by earthquakes
singed by fire
slopped by mud
leaving the searching tsunami
sure to come
for a higher perch
alone flying to
our hill country cabin
viewed from the porch
sleeping is a tree
journey exhausted
with whitewings returned
changing, surviving, searching
california dreaming
Like us

mom amd pop cardinal
going about life
not hearing the changes
muffled by alien clouds
scratching the edge
of uncertainty
against the back
of a fading blue sky
hung by clothes pins
on the line of smog
flown to us by TWA
belched from GM
we do it all for you
we watch from the porch

"The Point Is"

The point is, English Pointer hunting dogs have been an intregal part of my life for 30 years. It all started when my husband John showed up at the door with a pointer named Tex. Old Tex had been hunting for alot of years, but had picked up a bad habit. He had a problem when his owner tried to hunt with him. Tex would not stay out in front of the hunting truck and hunt. As soon as they turned on the engine and started to move he found his way behind it. He would only follow the truck. He was getting old and figured they might forget him and leave him in some strange, remote spot from which he couldn't find his way back. The owner was looking for hunting home for him and offered him to John. If you have hunted much or even if you haven't, you might figure the dog needs to be in front of the truck to point birds for you. John knew that being a hunting dog, Tex lived to hunt. He would have a home and a hunting place with us. We did not hunt with a truck. We hunted on foot, so we would not have this problem with Tex. I told John this was the ugliest dog I had ever seen. Tex was our first hunting dog. He had an igloo dog house on the back covered patio of our San Antonio home. The kids decorated his igloo at Christmas time. On occasion, cold nights for example, he found the sofa in the family room. Tex was sent to us for a reason. Little did we know how much a part of our lives he would become and how much he would give to us. He was one of the best hunting dogs we ever had.
He taught my husband and I how to hunt after we leased our first hunting area in South Texas. At first, we thought we had a dog that was just too old and slow to do the job. As time passed, we realized he was the one who knew what he was doing, not us. We followed him as he slowly walk across the fields in front of us sniffing and searching for birds. His tail was up waging like crazy. He was having fun. The sun was shining, the breeze and temperature were just right as he carefully walked through the 3ft high grass looking and listening. When he picked up bird scent his head would be low to the ground or up sniffing the incoming breeze. He was trying not to get too close and scare the birds. He wanted to get just close enough to point and hold them. When he accomplished this he waited for us to come and walk through his point. What a teacher. All we had to do is watch him as we followed him. Like a statue he stood with his right front foot just off the ground, his tail straight up in the air and his nose just a few feet behind the birds. He waited for us to get to him no matter how long it took. We quietly approached him from behind. As we walked past Tex, the birds flushed. John and I had to be quick to shoot. The birds were fast. If we downed a bird or two Tex would go and get them and bring them to hand. This means he actually retrieved the downed bird and put them in our hand. They don't all do that, but that's another story. We just waited for him to do this as we smiled and watched a hunting dog doing what he loves best. If we missed all the birds, we got a rather scathing look from Tex out of the corner of his eye. Do you want me to shoot them too? He taught us to follow him wherever he went. Trust me, I know where the birds are. He taught us to be quiet out of respect for his efforts and the birds. He taught us to walk softly and slowly and to be patient and have fun. He taught us to watch him closely as he might point out the danger of a nearby snake. He was snake trained. This is when trainers put live rattlesnakes on the ground and when the dog gets too close they tap him with a shock collar. The dog thinks the snake did it and stays away next time. He taught us to thank him for a job well done and to honor the birds. Around noon, we would take a break, have lunch and nap for an hour or two. About three o'clock we would start hunting again. At the end of a hunting day Tex was plum tuckered out. John would pick him up, put him around the back of his neck like a scarf, grab his paws and carry him back to camp. His nose sniffed the air all the way back to the moterhome from his perch on John's shoulders. We would then clean the birds, start cooking a few for dinner and take care of the dog. I always picked all the ticks and thorns off the dog after a day of hunting and gave him a good rubdown. He earned it. We learned alot from Tex. He said even if the hunting wasn't good, on a beautiful day it was enough just to be out in the scenic South Texas country. Most of all he taught us hunting was supposed to be fun for the dogs and the hunters. He taught us not to worry, that every so often dogs and hunters have bad days when no birds are pointed. We just smiled as he laid on the sofa in the motorhome, his nose sniffing the aroma of quail cooking on the stove. As his eyes closed, sleep took him back over the points and retrieves of the day. He was seeing the perfect day in the life of an English Pointer. Not something they have learned, but something they were born knowing how to do. Jim, a friend, who hunted with us often said that when he died he wanted to come back as one of our hunting dogs. Not a bad idea.

"David"

I see a man

Near my age

Maybe white hair

amd a few wrinkles

Sitting in his room

A computer for company

Alone with his thoughts

Waiting for commas and periods

To find their way

Into his maze of memory

And life today

Writing for posterity

And me

The words surround him

Like bees on a hive

He is still

Except for his fingers

Dancing over the keys

Rolling the dough

To form words like a pies

Fine for my eyes

Good for my mind

Whenever he's done

And the oven is off

A piece of that pie

Flies through the air

To find me watching

As I open my email

For my piece of pie

To find David waiting

"Anticipation"

To anticipate is to give an event that might occur, advanced thought, discussion, or treatment. Anticipation is one of the formless elements that touches everything we do. They are what add the richness to our lives. Spawned when you cut fresh flowers and put them in your grandmothers vase on the kitchen table. Spawned when you take time to watch a rainbow or call a friend. Anticipated, done and enjoyed. They keep us in preparation for the movement of our lives through time and teach us. The process that sustains our ability to study life, often revealing answers.
Gypsy and I had anticipated the cold, rain that finally came during the night and ended our dry spell. Our eyes opened when our ears heard the drops begin to fall on the metal roof of the cabin. The wind whistled the rain story around the cabin windows. The trees in the woods tossing in the wind threw the rain message against the brown logs. As we listened, in the the total darkness, we were strangely content to have received the rain we had anticipated. It had been on our minds for weeks as we watched the dust on our gravel road rise up behind the few vehicles that use it everyday. Content, our rain drenched thoughts carried us back to sleep. With the first light Gypsy went outside to investigate the new smells that came with the rain. I followed her shortly, with my mug of hot expresso, and we both watched and listened to what the woods was telling us about the cold, wet morning.
I had anticipated this mug of coffee brewing on the stovetop in my 10 cup stainless steel Bialetta Expresso Machine. I probably thought about it yesterday. When my feet hit the floor this morning coffee was in my thoughts. The aroma of coffee brewing always finds a comfortable spot to land in the back of my mind. This is my only coffee of the day,so it has to be good. The whipping cream I add to it gives me the taste I anticipate. This is a tradition passed down to me from my mothers side of the family. My ancestors on their farms around Schaffhausen, Switzerland gathered to have their morning coffee. It was an important event. A friend just wrote a note to me in response to one of my stories. She said when she was a child and smelled the coffee and bacon her mother was cooking, she felt loved. It may seem a small thing to many, but, we choose savor all that life has to offer.
We wonder how to anticipate time. We have been alive way past half our lifetime. We don't know about the time we still have. The "Sound of the Hammer" is a book written by Carl Britsch, about my ancestors coming to this country. It contains an interesting few lines about time. "Time changes things, but does not change. Man changes, but time is constant as the sun. An hour today is the same duration as one of yesterday or a century ago; yet how slowly it drags when measured by our age or frame of mind. It is not ours to retard or accelerate the measured beat of time. We try to hold it e'er it passes, but lest we move on with it we fly in vain to catch again the moments past. Like runaway ponies, the moments ofttimes draw us where we would not go, and we find ourselves unable to retrace our steps to begin again. Time leaves its mark, and we gather up what is left and weave it into a pattern as best we can." We don't know what conclusions can be drawn about time, if any. We hope our time has been well spent. We hope we have not wasted too much of it, if that is possible. We will spend our anticipated time in some important way. Gypsy and I will sit on the porch in the morning and dream happy dreams of impossible size. She will be in a big, treeless field full of quail, squirrels and cats surrounded by her five foot high rabbit fence. I will be 100 years old, sitting on the porch of my cabin in the woods, expresso in my hand content to see her dream. Watching another story for my finger tips to find. Spending the time on my hands.
The good thing about the bad things in life we anticipate is that sometimes they are not as bad as we think they will be. Then there are the events that come into our lives consuming none of our anticipation. We have learned that worry can hide inside it before a dreaded event. All in all it brings a message with it that we can appreciate. It takes no shape beyond our thoughts that find a pattern stitched together by the eye of the needle of our mind.
Gypsy shows us the true meaning of anticipation as she holds a point on a squirrel at the feeder.

"Ordeal"

Writing can be an ordeal

Sometimes I just want to squeal

The house phone is ringing

What is it bringing?

My cell phone is calling

By now I am bawling

The dog is barking

Too long on her outing

My expresso is blurping

No time for slurping

Skype beeped my screen

What will that mean?

Feral cats are yowling

By now I am scowling

A squirrels in the wall

Having a ball

Twelve wild turkeys just came

The dogs back out for the game

Better get a picture

Of this fun mixture

Laundry is near

Waiting for me I fear

The cabin is dusty

My sweeper is musty

It's all a mess

I am in distress

It's a fight to write

Try as I might

A wasp just walked across my keys

Enough please

I will wait for another day

When everything will be ok

Peace and quiet will prevail

For this writer to tell her tale