I hike to the top of a fire tower in Robinson Forest. Dark green hills fill out the land below me. A hawk soars over its home. I wonder what it would be like to know this land as home. I wonder if I could belong to it. I watch butterflies chase each other, in and out of trees. I can't distinguish the type from here, and I don't have my guidebook to tell me anyway. I don't know the names of those trees down there because I never had a need to know. Perhaps I do have a need for this knowledge though, as does all humanity, to name and know other life forms in order to coexist with them.
     What right, I wonder, do I have to exist, when my waste does not become food for others, but pollutes and destroys ? What right do I have to procreate, while cities overflow with soft-skinned destroyers? Did we not all come from one precious moment? Without asking we became part of Life and we were given Life. How can we go on taking?

Lifeways

though blinded by dust of
miners' trucks,
these gutted hills weep.
concrete thunder and wrecked rubble
cannot smother-
false hopes and claims
cannot cover-
          the quiet struggle
          filling up this place
          they try to empty.

silt-clogged streams no longer
spill vigor to brothers and sisters below,
no longer connect
life
     with
          life.

instead, tears wear
small channels in a hillside,
black and cancerous,
stinging
the face of earth.

the hills choke them back
because they know
tears
like this
are a sign of
weakness
tears
like this
bring death
to lifeways below.

     I focus my eyes on a single tree, that maple below, I squint to see a single leaf, with tiny rivers running through it, and imagine a single cell, made of proteins organized perfectly so that this miracle tree will grow next to other miracle trees. I'm a miracle. There's a flood of life below, I think, and I am part of it. I could even belong to it. But how?

lesson on birdcalls

a black and white warbler, i was told, has a call like a squeaky wheel
and the flycatcher trills, "pizza, pizza, pizza"
a northern parula says, "zippo" like the lighter
while the common yellowthroat squawks, "your money, your money, your money"

their voices
sound above the wind
where their calls
escape my words-
where our engagement
must follow

so I will sit here until mosquitoes
quit sounding like a print job
i will wait until butterflies
quit reminding me of bits of trash
blown by wind
i will watch until tree limbs
quit nodding and whispering
and sunlight quits tickling
because i know they do nothing of the sort

i will listen until i know
just where my voice fits in the harmony
when my body is swept away
by the swelling rhythms
of the sweet earth

     Where does it come from? The Life? The organization? This harmony? I zoom again, now imagining myself escaping my time and becoming some water creature. My vision blurs and silence fills my world. I am floating in the right chemicals at the right temperature on the right day, and here I am, the first cell, simple and strange.

after rain

after rain
forest smells
sweet and raw
seep out
from decaying leaves
from beads of water slipping off downy yellow violet
from saturated deadfall
satisfied roots
glistening sandstone
and water
rolling
life and death entwine
consummating
this rain
this earth
these lives
these dying things
this moment
we are born

     I sit in the shade of a hemlock tree, after a steep climb up the side of the ridge. I look for the reasons I come. I find home in the shade, its coolness on my skin. I find it in the music, the cicadas and warblers calling excitedly, filling my ears with loud, joyful expressions of life. There are secrets in dark places beneath coverings of pine needles and twigs and duff I find peace in the gentle swaying motion of the trees, rooted and patient, and in the lighting, cool and green. I find answers in the smells seeping out after the rain. This place is overflowing with life that cannot keep to itself. It all wants to share. It all wants to sing. I want to sing. Suddenly I've found my right to be here. I am a part of this world as much as the trees and birds. I am new and perfect in my home.

new

now my feet stir
ripples in the water
sounding across
the creek and toward
banks where later I will
place my cool, wrinkled feet
and sand will coat them
like strawberries
in sugar

but now
the earth moves beneath
the water's surface
though water
waves
and the earth is still
now sun casts nets
over the bottom
where crawdads
and darters
dash from my feet
new
and caught up
in their time
inside this
throbbing shell

     I am Life. My body is roughly 70% water. Water is not the lifeforce, but the means for life. Our creation required water. Even now, water makes life possible. Water moves through everything allover the world, guiding us, showing us that the spirit of life emerges in the connections we make with each other. Waterways intertwine, with one community's waterworks flowing into another's and another's. Water leads us in our understanding of interdependence; it communicates continually, in cycles and in intricate webs.

talking about the weather

fireflies scatter among dark trees
like raindrops across a still pond
they must be talking about the weather
slipping into
synchronicity
with sparkling lacework
imitating the web of stars
spun above
they must be saying
looks like rain
and asking whether it will surge
or if the drops might just tease
the glassy pool
until dawn

     I am Life that came from one perfect moment in one perfect form. I hurl myself into the future and into thousands of species who follow my one magic moment without following anything. Where are we going? Is it up to us to decide who we want to be, or must we follow some divine law of indirection? Perhaps we have a choice between being passive destroyers and cooperative members of our ecosystems. Our survival now lies in the relationships we form with our environment and in our ability to be taught by nature. It lies in our ability to adapt, as it always has.

Fugate and the Fly

Fugate: Where you goin', little guy?
          What you doin' here?
          Won't you stop and let me watch you
          Let me see your little beard.

Fly: I'm not much for stopping, sir,
          I've only a bit of time
          Someone's been a dyin'
          And I have no need for rhyme

Fugate: Dyin'? Where's the funeral?
          Who's he left behind?
          What of his wife and children?
          Was he a working man, and kind?

Fly: No, sir, I do not know the man
          And there will be no hymns
          The feast is what I'm after
          (He rubs his hands and grins )

Fugate: You sure are one for focus-
          You know just where to go.
          If I had so much direction
          I'd have a shorter row to hoe.

Fly: No time left for chattin'
          The blood will soon be dry
          And, you know, my only dream
          Is to get real fat and die.

     Earth loves my waste. It feeds its sons and daughters with my waste. My existence does not have to mean the introduction of trash; it can be the renewal of energy. I want to be life-giving member of Life. I want to live within cycles. There are ways to return to earth while I live, just as I will return to her when I die. Life is not one extensive timeline, it is not even one great cycle; it is many cycles within other cycles, spinning, spinning, energy pushing energy ever since that one mysterious moment. Suddenly I can justify spreading my legs to birth children. Two, four, maybe twenty babies. We are Life. She moves through us. We belong. I came from Life. I will return to her. Her cycles will go on without me.

Kingdom Come

Our mother, who art beneath us
Your hollow be our home
Thy kingdom: one
But what have we done
On earth, to thy flora and fauna?

Give us a way to grow daily bread
And forgive us our tree-slashes,
As we forgive those who have tree-slashed before us.
And leave us not to our arrogant nation
But deliver us from exploitation.
For now is the calling, the hour, the dawning
To give our hunger

          An end

     At the top of a fire tower, a sea of green beneath me, I imagine life at a microscopic level. I focus my eyes on a single tree, squint to see a single leaf, and imagine a single cell, made of proteins organized perfectly so that this perfect tree will grow next to other perfect trees to form this flood of life. Where does it come from? The Life? The organization? I zoom again, now imagining myself escaping my time and becoming some water creature, my vision blurs, silence fills my world I am floating in the right chemicals at the right temperature on the right day, and here I am, the first cell, simple and strange. Suddenly I've found my right to be here. I am new and perfect. I am Life that came from one perfect moment in one perfect form. I hurl myself into the future, into thousands of species who follow my one mystical moment without following anything. It makes sense now, spreading my legs to birth children; two, four, maybe twenty babies. We are Life. She moves through us. We belong. I came from Life. I will return to her. Her cycles will go on without me.