WILDHORSE WAVES
Written by Sheryl Hester
Dark -green-hued forest contrasted
with the wheat-colored summer grass along the rocky shores as the small aluminum
fishing boat was pushed away from the dock. The early morning air was cool and
still. A pull on the starter rope and the motor rumbled softly, billowing and
choking with foggy puffs of smoke exhaling near the water. Slowly the boat
turned towards Wildhorse Island, three miles off in the distance. It was a
bright sunny morning and the lake was a mirrored reflection of the land and
lazy, downy white clouds in the sky.
The trolling poles were laid over the
seats of the boat with the end of them hanging over the side with their cowbell
lures flashing in the sun and tapping on the side of the boat as the boat glided over the smooth surface, their
multi-colored, leaded lines still rolled up in the reel. The cowbells tinkled in the air as the boat sped
up and its breeze passed through them. The two passengers were silent in an
early morning stupor; they sat listening to the water splashing, pushed aside
by the bow of the boat as it slid over the mirrored surface. One hand was
draped over the side of the boat with fingers skiing through the cool soothing
water.
The speed was cut. “Thump,” someone moved a foot to grab a
pole. The sounds vibrated from the metal boat bottom. The cowbells jingled
faster when his hands reached the pole. It was time to bait up with sweet
smelling canned corn that was passed between the father and his 10-year-old daughter.
Their lines were dropped over opposite sides as the cowbells looped and danced
sinking into the watery abyss, then flattening to attention as the boat slowly sped
back up again to extract the line into the deep. A thumb was placed on the spool
to keep from spinning too fast and backlashing the line. Then snap, pop! The reels were tripped to stop
the lines at the right depth of 125 feet. The poles were bent and tugging until
the boat immediately dropped speed, the poles relaxing with some bend from the
heavy lines pulling behind, each one straight off its side of the boat. Still, silence from the passengers. Suddenly one pole bent and lashed. “Got one!” rang
out. Immediately the motor cut to idle
and both reels clicked and ticked feverishly as the lines came in fast. “I
think I’ve got one too!” as often happened when the lines were being cranked
in. Thrashing cowbells appeared again, darting, with two beautiful Kokanee
salmon following on the dragline two feet behind. Cowbells came popping, dripping out of the
water. With no time to grab the net both fish were flipped into the boat by the
spring of the poles. The cowbells
jingled loudly again with the flopping fish fighting the line and tails
slapping as it lay on the bottom of the boat. Clanks and muffled thumps
resounded as the poles were set down and the fish unhooked. Then they were
placed in a wire mesh container and dropped over the side into the water. The
process was repeated a few more times on the way to Wildhorse Island.
As the boat approached the island shore
and slowed, waves were gently folded in front of it. Looking over the side, the
clear lake bottom grew nearer as it beached on the smooth multi-colored pebbled
rocks of the shoreline. A loud scrape of the bottom of the aluminum boat on the
rocks broke the silence as the outboard motor was cut and lifted. The boat’s waves
followed to the shore, slapping in rhythm on the shoreline breaking the silence
of the woods. The rocks rustled as the wave water receded over them, flashing
their bright, wet colors. With one leg
over the side, the daughter left the boat, shoes in hand, feet dropping into
the cold refreshing water. Pebbled rocks
crunched and rubbed beneath her feet as she turned and pushed the boat back out
into the lake. “I’ll be back in a few hours to pick you up,” he said, as the
boat rocked back into deeper water. The hum of the motor grew softer as it pulled
backward out into the lake. Arms were raised and waved goodbye in rhythm to
the rocking boat as it turned.
Silence, with a soft motored purr in
the background then a breeze flittered by as it shivered upon the water top. The
day was awakening. From silence, the flowing branches in the trees whispered to
add to the concert that was about to begin. The gin smell of pine, wild
sunflowers, and dust rose in the air. Heat immediately took over. Then a
slight musky smell added into the air and footsteps were heard on the smooth pebbled
shore, crinkle, clack, crinkle, and clack. Looking down the shoreline, a large bighorn
ram cautiously walked from the forest to the edge of the water. His head and powerful
curved horns slowly tilting back and forth as his nostrils gently lifted and
sniffed the air. His heavy head dropped as he drank in fresh clear water, and
then winched back up. Soon several large bachelor rams came out of the woods behind
him. Small sounds could be heard, a soft swoosh sucking sound as legs drug
through the water and crackling of the hooves as they parted the stones with
each step. They slowly left, turning back into the woods, like ghosts
disappearing, with no trace for senses to detect that they had been there.
As the girl walked away from the shoreline,
into the woods past the tree line and into the clearing, she heard a loud snort
and a reverberating stomp. Fallen,
brittle pine branches were snapping under hooves as the wild horses pounded them
in rhythm on the dry ground. The black
stallion and his bay mare, with a huge scar running over her hip, their
heads held high, trotted fast up on the bare hillside. A snort and blow came from
the stallion and the mare imitated as they both stood on the rock overlook
above. Their manes and tails were now waving in the wind. A large old mule appeared
behind them running with his nose to the ground shaking his head back and forth
towards them down in the dust as if to say how displeased he was. They had
lived on the island; just the 3 of them, for over 30 years and the mule still
hadn’t accepted the stallion as the leader.
Upward she climbed, leaving the
shored trees and horses behind. Walking in the knee-high dried grass and brittle
sunflower leaves. A few yellow drying flowers dotted the landscape here and
there. Lichened rocks appeared as she neared the top, peace and silence
overcame her with a soft breeze flowing around. Smells of dust and dried plants
rose up from the ground and into her nostrils. Her breathing grew heavier as
she neared the top. Her muscles weakened. Picking her way slowly through the
sharp protruding boulders, she was aware of her surroundings. Stopping to catch
her breath she surveyed out beyond the island at the deep blue glistening
water, the far soundless waves below, tall mountains surrounding the lake and
beyond into a vibrant blue sky. There were muffled sounds in the distance but
not ones that could be identified; it was more of a sense that they were there,
not a hearing of them. The peace and the beauty flowed over and around her when
she reached the top. She rested and studied the ground around her, the hooved
footprints and scat of the Bighorn sheep and deer, the soft padded prints of
the mountain lion. It hadn’t changed for eternity, sitting there she drew it
all in. As she descended toward a mountain meadow, where a large herd of
Bighorn grazed, she sat and counted, “Sixty? Seventy?”, as they moved around.
Something wild came over her; maybe it was the sighting of the mountain lion
tracks, as she stood up slowly and sheep heads popped up from the grasses and
looked toward her. “HA!” she yelled,
raised her arms and ran down the hill towards the sheep. They scattered in every
direction and ran up the steep rocks on the other side. She reached the high
meadow bottom exhilarated and free. She stood there reliving it over again, satisfied
with life; she started the descended walk towards the lake shore.
Mesmerized, she stood at the tree
line looking again at the horses. The mule lowering his nose and shook his head
towards her, she planned her escape, as his reputation for chasing people came
into her mind. Running round and round a big tree perhaps? Breaking the moment,
a faint sound of a motor was humming in the distance. She quickly turned
towards the shoreline, down the hill, walking fast to meet her ride. A stronger
wind had started and the waves were loudly slapping and whooshing, the rocks crackling
together as each wave receded from the shore. It was hard to manage to get into the boat as it was rising and falling with the water. She tossed in her
shoes and straddled the boat, bruising her inner thigh. It was a different world than the one she had
just left. Instead of peace and quiet with nature, the water was wilder than
the animals she had just experienced. The waves grew into great white caps and
the small boat struggled to lift its self over them, up on top then sledding and
slapping down to the bottom of the four-foot swells at a forty-five degree
angle. The water spat at their faces and soaked their clothes as they were
smiling and no longer silent. As a cowboy would ride a bronc, they were whopping and hooting
all the way back to the cabin’s dock.
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Like the mist of a river
gently kissing and tickling past the hull
as they parted with the wind
dancing around its bow and over the sides
animating the motionless canoe
as if it were moving.
Set in rock, his boulder duffel around him
sat the soundless, stone voyageur
a paddle ridged in his hands…
Centuries had charted by
as did the weather night and day
sunrises and sunsets had colored it
rainbows had decorated it
lightening had lashed it
rain squalled over it
frost and snow blasted it
wind dried it
all had shaped
“The Man in the Canoe”
onto the Sky Island
of the Catalina Mountain.
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THE GURGLING
STEAM
by Sheryl Hester
A
thundering boom and suddenly, trembling, the earth cracks open like a lightning
bolt through the forest. Warm gurgling steam sizzles and billows up from it,
in cloud formation, dissipating into the air. The nearby trees shake and
vibrate as branches rub together as the wind increases. Leaves fall weaving back and forth, filtering,
reflecting from the sun. The wind begins
as it swooshes, carrying up the falling leaves, circling them around and
bringing them fluttering back towards the earth. Birds take to the air and catch
the wind as they lift winding around in the sky falling and lifting as their
wings madly fight to stay in the air. Deer tails point to the sky, their white
flashes with the leaves as deer rush away crashing through the brush. The branches
crack and snap. Filling the air in the
distance, buffalo mew and bawl in murmur, stampede away, their hooves pound
against the ground echoing, their tails erect from fright. Amber prairie grass
blows over waving back and forth trying to right itself. Bark and leaves are swept up and thrown across
it. Dust devils pick them up spinning uncontrollably. Clouds appear, racing, speeding,
across the sky, their darker bottoms flat and pointing. A shudder, it stops. The
trees hardened in silence. No more
sounds or movements except from the gurgling stream.
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RHUBARB PIE
By Sheryl Hester
The
trailer rattled and clanged as the smooth highway turned into the side road of dirt and holes.
The young horses shifted and bumped each other with hooves stomping on the
wooden floor sending vibrating thumps into the cab of the truck. A sharp turn
made the horses shift and loud squeaks came from rubbing metal. The two
Blackfoot friends were quiet in the cab and pointed the truck towards the large
barn at the end of the driveway. Pulling in, they circled around to back the
trailer to the door of the barn.
Hearing
them come down the long driveway with her dogs barking, Sheryl appeared at the
side door of the barn. The dogs always barked at rattling trailers and U.P.S.
trucks. She smiled and waved and guided the driver back to the entry door. They
stopped and opened the truck doors to step down. Nonspeaking they walked toward
her. She was standing on the running board peering between the slates of the 6
horse stock trailer. The yearlings were nervous and wild. Sam, her Blackfoot friend, said, “They’re a
wild bunch. I hope you don’t have too much trouble with them.” “It will be
alright”, Sheryl said as she moved to unlatch the trailer gate. “We’ll just run
them into the barn, I have stalls ready and I’ll put two in each stall.” The trailer door squeaked open and the
frightened yearlings pushed back against the front wall. Tom, Sam’s older
friend, stood opposite the trailer gate to fill the hole opposite the gate and
guide the wild horses down the alley towards the stalls. Sam went to the front
of the trailer, waved his arm through the metal slates on the trailers side
yelling, “Haw, haw!” The horses bolted towards the open door and leaped out
onto the cement floor slipping and sliding while running to the far end of the
alleyway towards the arena passing the open stalls. Sheryl followed them down
and shut a gate behind them. “Better to leave them in there a little while to
settle down.”
“Come
into the house for a visit. Have you had your dinner? We’ll be eating soon” she
said. Both men told her they better not stay for dinner. They have a long 120
mile drive back to Browning and the reservation. She said, “I just took a fresh
rhubarb pie from the oven so come have a piece of that and some coffee.” They
agreed as they were stomping off their boots to come into the house.
Sheryl
indicated they sit at the kitchen table and cut into the warm, fresh pie, taking
out two large pieces and plating them. She poured a fresh cup of coffee for
each. “I won’t join you with the pie since it’s almost dinner time. I’ll wait
till after we eat for mine.” The two weathered brown-skinned natives looked at
the pie and took a bite. Horses were the topic of conversation. “When should I
come back and pick them up?” Sam asked. Sheryl said, “Give me about a month and
they should lead pretty well by then.”
They sat and ate slowly as they talked. As they finished they said, “Thanks for the good pie!” They walked outside towards the truck and barn saying goodbye. As they rattled back down the driveway, Sheryl went into the barn to finish the evening chores before dinner.
They sat and ate slowly as they talked. As they finished they said, “Thanks for the good pie!” They walked outside towards the truck and barn saying goodbye. As they rattled back down the driveway, Sheryl went into the barn to finish the evening chores before dinner.
At
5:30, Dennis had come home from his office. He could smell the rhubarb pie and
the roast in the oven. He changed his clothes and came out to eat a nice supper.
Afterward, two large pieces of the
rhubarb pie were cut from the pan, plated and placed on the table. Both sat
down, picked up their forks to dig in. They lifted the pie to their mouths in
anticipation and as they set the pie on their tongues both spit the bitter,
sour pie back onto the plate. Sheryl had forgotten to put sugar in it! She was
so embarrassed! Sam and Tom hadn’t said
a word about it nor indicated there was anything wrong. They ate all of theirs.
What a conversation they must have had driving back to the reservation.
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A GRASS GROWS
By Sheryl Hester
Air blows harshly causing debris to gather and form a composted blanket over the solitary seed lying on its side on top of the musty soil. Its minuscule, oval form weaves back and forth in the breeze, rocking it, depressing it into the soil around it. In unison, as temperatures rise and fall, moisture swells up and absorbs back into the soil. With each rise it dampens the seed coat, which slowly drinks in the wetness, absorbing it towards its embryonic core, as a slow transformation takes place. The light and moisture notify the embryo, within the core of the seed, to transform. Its cells break apart into germination that grows the roots as they crawl towards the outer edge, twisting and breaking through its coat. They grow and twist, sucking up the nourishment and delivering more moisture to the cells that develop into a small strong stem that stretches through its top and toward the sun; growing, twisting, waving, as it yearns to develop and mature. The sheath’s growth crawls up the stem, protecting it and developing growth nodes along the way. Each sheath develops a collar for the blade as it pops out and grows larger. The blade fights to develop against the wind, starting from the base to form, developing to absorb the sunlight’s nourishment for life. Reaching for the ultimate goal of producing the next generation, the seeds slowly form at the top. Upon the plant’s maturing, a bird lands sideways with miniature claws grabbing and holding the stem. Its weight bends the grass over as its black eyes stare at the seeds. Its neck stretches towards them and it grasps them individually in its beak, each grasp causing the stem to bounce, bucking the bird up and down as if to shake it off. The nervous bird glances quickly as it reaps its rewards. A flicker of light attracts its concentration and it immediately takes flight away. A solitary seed remains. Time goes by; the heat billows and dries the plant and the seed. Passing through, a buck takes steps, as it nibbles off the tops of the seed pods on the grasses alongside, a step and its hoof brush the seed at the top of the grass, knocking it off, it falls to the ground, waiting.
COYOTE WHISPERS
by Sheryl Hester
A slight
breeze forms as the air moves silently through the unyielding cactus. The
breeze from a being, was it really there? A flicker of fur passes flows by the
glimmer of recognition from the side glance of an eye. No sounds. Movement so
fast it pauses in air, its feet dangling from the narrow legs from its body
moving forward and back such as a pendulum rhythm waves back and forth through
time over the still sand. An end of a tail flickers and disappears behind the cactus,
a nose reappearing on the other side. A sideways glance and the pace quickens,
with the pendulum legs moving faster and turning away into the foliage,
disappearing. I stand there, left
behind, and breathing in that slight whisper of the moment that just passed by.
WIND SPIRITS THREE
by Sheryl Hester
A spirit joins
mine, riding over my shoulders, watching over me. Flying together as we rush afloat in the wind,
we drop on back a powerful horse on a dead run through an open field. Each stroke
of the unbridled stallions’ gallop engulfs me with the power of his shoulder
muscles lunging and retracting, a front leg reaching straight out, the other
folded and following with front hooves pounding the ground as its body lunges and
leaps over them, the hind legs kick, lift over and pass the fronts in powerful
strides. His breath rages in and out in
great gasps. He bows his neck then releases his squeal of delight as he snorts
out the air from his lungs. With each
squeeze of my calves, he moves faster, unbelievable that there is still reserve
speed. Clinging to us, fog rushes up from the ground then trails along behind. It
flashes from each hoof beat stroking the ground. Nearby, the wind gales through
flickering trees, whistling through their green needles like a stroke over a
violin, a rising and lowering sound that follows along in song. Unified, we communicate through thoughtful
ecstasy, our bright eyes tear from the wind and a smile covers our lips. As we lift off into the air, the wind blows powerfully into my face blowing away ill thoughts, worries, and
problems. In joy, I’m back to life as it was when I was young. My shouldered spirit rises to fly, a tiny,
soft kiss of its tongue touches my cheek as it passes by. Out flying us both,
she looks back with a toothy coyote grin and excited eyes. A throaty
high-pitched howl flows over her tongue lapping the wind. The coyote’s joy of continuous play in flight
matches the determination of the stallions speed to keep up. I sit aboard and
celebrate my life, my hands wave free in the air reaching towards the howling spirit
in front. Underneath me, the stallion through time has forgiven me, his trainer
and former master. We three run as one through the valley up and over, dancing
around the clouds and back down. Many
years have passed since we’ve been together; our reunion is uplifting and
free. We take wing for ages then fall to
the ground from exhaustion on a grassy meadow under the trees. The contented
stallion lies with feet curved underneath him, his head off the ground, his
nose resting in green grass while he nibbles. The sweet, sweet smell of fresh
mowed grass scents the horses’ breath and it peacefully drifts through the air.
My back leans against the warmth of the underbelly of the horse, a perfect
temperature. My head bowed on his ribs, his legs wrapped around me, my legs
curled beneath me on the soft grass with the warm soft coyote curled up against
them. Her gratified face reaches and leans towards my face, touching nose to
nose, exchanging breaths of each other’s air, passing in and out, filling our bodies. Together as one, for eternity, we peacefully
dissipate into the soft earth, dissolving as it absorbs our sparked energy. Energy
to arise another day, to flow up with the fog, uniting with the clouds,
crackling, snapping, forming the
lightning’s reverberated, explosive flash in the sky.
PAWS
written by
Sheryl Hester
Warm air blankets me with a gentle
massage of waving tiny hairs tickling over the skin of my arm exposed to the
outdoors. A hair from my forehead lightly brushes over my brow. The sun’s rays are nearby glowing just
outside of the shelter of the warm shade that protects me as I lay sleeping
comfortably in my chaise lounge. My closed eyes slowly awake from the peace of
a mid-day nap. My senses appear, drinking in the realization of my surroundings,
as I notice the unusual quiet surrounding my small environment is lacking any
sounds of the birds that I went to sleep to. I drift awake and as my lids open
to the bright sun I lay motionless as my eyes scan my surroundings. Instantly a
message enters my brain that I am not alone. Atop the garden brick wall to my
right, gazing back at me are three pair of bobcat eyes, sitting two arm lengths
away. My body lies still as our eyes are
locked in curiosity as endless minutes
go by, none moving; a sense of oneness passes silently from eye to eye, sight
to sight. Slowly they start to move as if bored from the scene, unison in slow
motion, dropping their bodies down the chair height of the wall, in floating
motions that make no sound their large soft paws cushion their contact with the
earth below. Majestically they walk to
the next wall, extending their bodies to mount it then float down to the other
side. The mother is leading her two kittens to the shade of the tree a few
steps away. Slowly I rise to watch their exit. With my camera, I silently
follow them to the cool green grass surrounding the trees shade. Invitingly the
mother lays flat out in the shade and I sit down in the grass nearby. Her children gain spring in their steps,
arching their backs slightly as they begin to play around her in a game of tag.
Mother doesn’t move but lies with indifference to my company as her eyes slowly
shut with her head held up, her turn to nap as I watch. As fast as the small game of tag occurs one
kitten feeling the lazy mood of the warm sun, falls alongside of its mother,
the other still in a playful mood cuffs its sibling and when getting no
response lopes off towards the tree aggressively, defiantly, injects its claws
into the loose bark, climbs to the lower branches and lays between them. Still
defiant and aware, it stretches its body and claws at imaginary beings as it
twitches its tail. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, its energy is barely contained. Its solitary perch last only a few seconds
and it bounds down the other side running at a slow pace to join its mother and
sister, hoping for some more play. The mother ignores its advances and it turns
to the sister irritating her until she rises up and follows and they half lope
off to the trail along the wall. Their bodies twist as they slow to a walk and
wander far enough to gain their mothers' watchful attention to follow. She slowly arises from her interrupted rest
with a look of despair she walks behind them as they all quietly softly disappear
into the thorny entry of the wash below.
I sit alone, left behind. The romance ends as the birds start singing again. I exit the scene, holding onto the memory, as one would hold a free bird on a hand.
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ETERNAL
ARTIST
by
Sheryl Hester
Just as a wet
watercolor brush flows moving paint across an exceedingly liquid paper spreading
it into forms, the waves that flow and spread over a sandy beach force the tiny
grains to wash back and forth across a sandy canvas. Swaying to and fro, the
chiming grains and slapping waves wash a tune of rhythm that flows about the
canvas of sand, painting from the movement of time. Mimicking the prairie grass
and forest trees as they sway to the wind, rocking in rhythm to the pulse of
the earth, the sea beats with the tune, its waves in and out, in and out,
licking the shore, moving it, constantly changing the forms in the sand as it
catches and molds onto the particles laying in and around. Building and
destructing with each watered wave, as does a master sculpture that surges and
presses his fingered hand over and into clay sliding back and over the piece. Waves constantly create nature’s masterpiece, never
ending in form, never ending in sight, never ending in time. Ridged trees sit atop
a backdrop of the shiny, blackened rock cliffs appearing as if pounded out by an
artist’s oil brush, formed forcibly by wet, gale winds and waves blowing in
from the sea. Winds that directed the eternal growth of each branch and bent it
into the centurion forms overlooking the masterpieces below. Sun sets and rises
with color, ever-changing. Its pallet waits each passing moment. Its audience
changes as fast as the flick of a gulls eye in time, crabs moving horizontal across
the sand, minuscule creatures moving in and around the sand grains, footprints
appear carrying with them the senses that drink in nature, the true artist of
eternity.
A Little Cabin in the Woods
Written by Sheryl
Hester
At the end of a narrow, short, dirt lane, a tiny, old, log cabin
sits in the woods of the North Fork, just off the gravel road that leads there.
Remote appearing, it stands alone on its tiny parcel of land. Rustic and barren
with minimal amenities, its charm and natural beauty reflect from its owner. No
room for septic or well but as my father would have said, “It has a path
instead of a bath”. A path with an old outhouse sits at the end of it. Cabin,
creek and a small beaver lakefront sit together on a small triangle of land. The
foliage around it is left untouched with natural pathways created by man and
animals weaving through it. Peacefulness abounds the cabin, a oneness with the
earth around it. A setting so natural that no one could duplicate it, belonging
there in time, with no intrusiveness to the wildness and peace that surrounds
it. The crystal clear lake to its side reflects the aspen and pines, the flower
jeweled water plants jet up from the muddy bottom along the shore. Protecting
it from wind the tall mountain behind allows only a shimmer of air to blow across
the lakes pristine, mirrored, surface. No sounds are heard in the still air other
than the small flowing stream at the front foot of the cabin. There are a few
cabins along the lake but far enough away and their people live in quiet
solitude. No adventures to be had from their
porches, no boats with motors, no fishermen, no swimming in the shallows with
mudded bottoms, a goodness and quietness instead. Beached canoes dot the
shoreline in front of the cabins but hardly venture out onto the small lake.
They are not needed as everything can be seen from a cabin porch.
My dear friend, Annegret sighs, sitting in the antique metal
deck chair as she looks out over the small lake before her. She drinks in the
beauty of the natural area around her, carefully rocking at peace in her realm.
Escaping from her business, that awaits her in town, she contemplates her life,
sometimes sharing this scene with others, sometimes not. Having awakened from the bunk inside, making her
coffee on a gas camping stove with water hauled in from town, Annegret sips
slowly with fingers enveloped around the mug. Her senses softly take in her solitude of
peace, escaping her busy world.
Chickadees land unaware in the trees and brush she faces, from
the lake behind them the glistening diamonds of light blink through the needles
and branches. The birds flutter and hop, disturbed at each other, scolding,
chasing and darting in and out of the pine branches. The huckleberries are
appearing and ripe for a snack, the bear grass blooms tall like torches in the morning
light over the forest floor. Odd shaped plants awaken, stretching from the
earth through the leafy debris left from the winter, reaching towards the sun
hoping to get a ray through the thick foliage above them. Annegret identifies
them in her mind, her business relies on natural plants and their powers, wishing
the power of her vision of them could be sold in containers instead of the
processing of them in her lab of herbal oils. Natural wonders of nature fit
Annegret. Her extensive knowledge of herbal wellbeing has guided her successful
business of manufacturing herbal products. Her business employs many and she
takes it seriously having chemists and a lab as pristine as the scene before
her now.
This is her get away. Sitting on the antique chair my
parents had left to me, her thoughts turn to our special times sitting there
together, quietly visiting and watching our dogs Phoebe and Wally wonder through the tall grass pathways. In her
solitude, she picks up her phone and mine rings 1500 miles away. She tells me
where she’s calling from. I envision it in my mind and we speak for an hour as
if we are there rocking together.
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written by Sheryl Hester
Evening forms with armies of angry
clouds boiling their sunset heads over the Catalina Mountains. The clouded
warriors are swallowing the mountains in foggy darkness, while their thundered,
reverberating canons rumble their madness down from an infuriated, flashing sky.
Distant booms sounding as an endless beating of angry base drums marching
nearer, coming to their battlefield, leading the procession of the wet, warred
fury following. Screamed orders, from clouded sergeants, carry up with the
crackling fire of lightning to the war brigade above.
Out front, individual raindrops plummet
from the sky against the ground, clearing away the insects as they run for
cover from the wet bombs. Raindrops change into an artillery battery of
rainfall falling with a bombardment, the raindrops rat-a-tat-tat war cry when
they hit the ground as if their sky is taking vengeance over the world. Rainbows
fly like flags of the battle. Winds
build up like stomping feet marching then running towards death. Animals run
for cover in bewilderment of the war upon them. Plants rejoice and reach to
their wet soldiered saviors. Trees bow and bend, rejoicing for their summer’s
drink of sky blood. In the washes, streams form and swell as water pushes, forcing
all to spread apart ahead of them like tanks running through an opposing troop.
Water twists and churns, dancing in a death roll that melds with life and sand,
forward marching in step with the madness of the thunder and the rain, joining
the battle march of a sky at war.
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NATURES SONG Written
by Sheryl Hester
My sullen mood reflects the
memories of long winter days in Montana. The unusually cold weather continues
outside our Sun City Arizona home as I’m sitting at my desk facing my computer screen. Cold
weather has created nothing but screen time for days, preventing me from enjoying
my daily dose of walking through nature. I’m cranky to be kept inside. My mind is
comprehending where to begin a story as my eyes are daydreaming downward at my
still, cold hands, sitting on the keyboard. I ponder how to approach the writer’s
group next topic, which has to do with reference to a favorite song. My hands
aren’t moving over the keys. I am waiting for something to communicate to them
from my brain. Frustration comes when
nothing creative enters my mind. Suddenly sarcastic humor takes over me. As
a Sun City choir concert might sing a revised song, a tantrum flows from my
fingers. “Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow”, comes to mind. My fingers
start typing:
“The weather outside is crappy,
It makes me feel unhappy.
Phoebe has nowhere to “go”.
Bring the warmth, with the sun….. “Oh,
please don’t let it snow.”
Phoebe might need a nappy,
I’m feeling oh so scrappy.
Now Dennis has nowhere to go
Bring the warmth, with the sun….”
“Oh, fuck the cold!”
As I disregard my ridiculous,
lyrical theme, searching for better, I look up from my screen and glance out
the window at the gale winds blowing by. Movement catches my eye. It is coming
from a tall sahauro, “Standing, treble clef!”, I think as it hits me. Then, as
if by “Fantasia” magic, the silhouettes of three, small, black birds take
flight, fluttering against the winds force that is trying to blow them back to
where they came. Two of them fly in straight determination, as corded notes, one
above the other, across the page of sleet lined sky. A solo bird catches a
different gust, flying in front and above the two, bouncing against the wind,
like a leading note, staccato in high. All lifting and falling together like
fluted dotted notes, shrilly bouncing across a musical sheet. Unheard but
imagined, natures written song.
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