2 Minutes. Go!

They say you can't go home again, but I don't buy it. The idea of a home, that is. It's a conceit, believing that we belong to someplace. Home is your paranoia manifest. Home is something you created. You can't return to something that never existed in the first place. They also say that half of the world was created from a rib...

You buy that? I don't know. It seems like sorcery. 

Dark magic.

They say that every dog has its day, but, clearly, that's not true. The world is full of abandoned dogs. There are people who torture dogs for fun. When do they get their day? And if we're being metaphorical, well, that's just fucking dumb. You ever open your eyes?

The world is full of misery we created. Children starve. Still.

Stop listening to what they say. Find a quiet, natural place. A place where you can hear the thoughts that are in you already. You need to trust that voice inside of you. That's where your solace lies. That's where you can find epiphany. 

You just gotta shut up for a little while. 

They don't tell you that, and it would behoove you to wonder why.

2 Minutes. Go!

Fight the battle in the skies. The stars will guide you. If you pay attention to the ways they move, you can transmit purity. The universe will hear you, and the sky father will be glad. The earth mother will be jealous, but you can't please everyone.

If you speak to the seasons, they will answer you. They may not provide the answers you want, but they will speak. You need to be able to recognize the signs. The signs are everywhere if you look.

Listen to the soft voices that speak to you when you close your eyes to sleep. Push back against them if you must, but don't tune them out. There is majesty in their whispers. Think of it in the same way you think of vespers at dawn. 

When the eclipse comes, you will open your veins to the earth mother, and hope she forgives you. Your blood will seed the fields, and your children's children will thank you.

It begins now.

2 Minutes. Go!

The falling light dances briefly on the water ripples...dusk is coming, and the birds are singing their evening songs. Underneath the sounds that human ears can hear, there is a symphony. The plants give their final praises to the sun. Insects dig and feed. Back in the woods, the owl's head is slowly turning, and he is creating a landscape in his mind.

The moon will be shrouded in clouds tonight. There will be enough of a glow to walk without tripping, but there will be no light for hunting. This is good and bad. It's mostly bad, but it evens the playing field a little. 

Fires are started down in the valley, as the people prepare for the evening meal and singing. There are salmon being smoked by the edge of the camp. Women and children twist hemp fiber into rope. The dogs of the camp slink by in silence hoping for scraps of meat to drop, intentionally or not. They will not let anyone or anything endanger those in the camp.

When the fire dies down to coals, the people will sleep. When the sun and the day animals rise, they will rise also. They will drink from their water sacks and eat some of the soft fruits they have collected. 

This is how the day goes. And goes. And will always go.

Or at least how it was supposed to go.

2 Minutes. Go!

I tip my hat to the scrub jay; he's there every morning. Like the squirrels. Like the ravens. The mockingbirds don't want anything to do with me. And she won't give the other birds a moment's rest. The raven, the blue jays, or the squirrel. The mockingbird hates us all. But she makes some damn fine music. And musicians are fickle creatures. Trust me, I know. 

The osprey circles over the brackish water, and sometimes passes my apartment in transition. The white tailed kite loops lovely circles in the sky. I watch it sometimes, and it is easy to see how man made angels. Same way they made mermaids. A little romanticism and a lot of hope.

The Canada geese are loud and they have every right to be. We have ruined them. Like we ruined the pigeon. The geese honk their frustration to the heavens. I shoot a 'V' up with my fingers. A kind of apology. It's stupid, I know. I just want them to know that I know the way things should be. 

There are lizards and bugs and all kinds of skittery things in my backyard. A baby possum used to visit us. We tried to figure out what it liked to eat. It was cute and we loved him. He is old and ugly now. I still wish he would swing by.

The cats? Man, I have mixed feelings. I love cats. I love that they are fierce hunters. I just don't want them hunting in my yard. But still, I'm happy to see them. And if they killed a bird, I wouldn't be mad. Just sad. Which would be worse. I wouldn't judge. I too have killed a bird. I judge myself. 

I sit under the branches of the trees that shield my apartment from the sun. I can tell where we are in the moving tide by the smell. Low tide smells awful to some people. To me, it smells wholesome. Natural. It smells alive. My wife cares for succulents. We have a million in our yard. 

At any rate. That's what it's like in my backyard. I pass hours here, and the community means a lot to me. If any of this sounds intriguing, the price of admission is unsalted peanuts, still in the shell.