Driving from Alabama to Louisiana, I made a detour at dusk into Natchez, Mississippi. The Mississippi River surprised me with its grand calm, and I was overtaken by an emptiness. I viewed the river without thought.

Sandwiches and a glass of sangria revived my spirit.

These photos were taken on Friday, May 25th, 2012.

Memorial Day weekend, Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

two here
eight there
a dozen
common nighthawks
agile in flight
flickering
in the dusky light
the aerial weaving
of uncommon cloth
the night path
of the human heart

I've yet to figure out the mystery of the schools.

This yellow light was flashing this morning. The sign has been there all year, but there is no school on this street. That's one puzzle.

When the public school buses roll by, except for drivers, they are empty, no matter what time of day I see them. (This was also true when I was living in Oakland/Berkeley, California 2009-2010). I've seen maybe ten big yellow buses tooling along various streets in the last two days, not a child in any of them. Even the university buses are lacking passengers. That's another puzzle.

There are some signs of life at the local schools, but I don't see the activities that once were common, such as band practice in the fields, nor team practice for sports. The school grounds show little evidence of the trampling of young feet. It's so confusing, I've been hesitant to bring it up. Where are the students?

There are moms - and dads- who fill in the blanks in life - the ones who take you in when your regular parents are away. The ones who patiently wait in the school parking lot to pick you up with their kids and drive you home after glee club practice. The ones who tell you your parents really do love you when your parents are mad about something or other you've done. These are moms who notice you need a new dress, or maybe a cookie, when your folks are too overwhelmed. They let you watch how to cook okra and tomatoes, or let you help with tamales, or they make you a baloney sandwich, or fry donuts just because you are present in their home. And when you've grown, and are caring for your mom or dad in ill health, they show up here and there with bits of comfort and calm.

Thank you so much, you are not forgotten - and Happy Mother's Day.

The end was in sight!
Many, many times.

beautiful rain

The journey was rugged,
accidents unaccidental.
There were discoveries that made them sing,
and people who treated them kindly.
There were people,
and there were
things they learned along the way
that made them wretched,
fragile,
and they treated each other
with great tenderness.

The first four songs I remember hearing as a kid were:
The Mockingbird Song
Day-O
Silent Night
Silver Bells

I have specific places associated with each song, not only those first ones, but those to come.

(I remember the sound of Nanci Griffith singing the Wexford Carol while I was sitting at the stop at 290 West and Fitzhugh one Christmas Eve, the highway quiet, the stars shining in the cold night. 'Time, flowing like a river, to the sea...' came up after sunset at another intersection driving home from work. 'Nights in White Satin' from the back seat of a car riding home after seeing 'Sounder' with friends. 'Orange Sky', well, also on Fitzhugh. Was introduced to a lot of songs on the radio on Fitzhugh - 'Free Falling' is another. There was 'Into the Mystic' on a turntable at a party in Denver, and 'Madman Across the Water' at a party in Broussard, so insistent from the next room, I had to go in, spellbound, to listen.)

I don't know where I'm going with this. (And isn't that how life is right now? but I keep listening for the music, the soundtrack, the direction.)

Sometimes it's all so very clear, love spelled out in big letters, and there is a serenity, and a confidence. Sometimes it's all a fog, and though you have that inner compass you've worked on polishing, you now can't quite read the needle.

If there are certain songs that stood out when you were a young child as though they were lit from within, maybe they're a gift that your mind is holding on to through the years, ready to surface as needed.


Harry's shout,
Daaaaaayyy -oh!
cuts through fog,
sails across the void,
just for your ears to hear.

a Christmas chorus
is forever calling,
ring-a-ling,
to let you know,
forever, yes,
all is calm
all is bright

the rocking chair,
is marking time
at the beginning
at the end
(sing it again -
mockingbird -
one more time)

While we're on the subject of bugs and things, I found this cutie (top image) this morning. There was glare, and what I thought were spots on the fruit were actually part of the hind legs.

The ligustrum, in full glory, attracted a visitor, hobnobbing with the blooms.

A lot of trees have died since the drought began in 2010. I've taken photos of over forty tree stumps in a small Austin park in my neighborhood, great trees that have been lost. Every one of them is worth remembering.

The first photo above is from Pedernales Falls, a state park in the Texas Hill Country. When the hardy local junipers that have thrived and multiplied for decades in seasons wet and dry begin to die off, you know conditions are very much out of the ordinary. It hasn't rained much this year where I live.

Meanwhile, a lot of the area continues to look green, in ways that seem to contradict whether there is a drought or not. Fresh sod is brought in and brightens the surroundings. New trees are planted to replace the great oaks and other casualties. I say trees, but I think of some of the newcomers as 'notatrees'. Many of them thrive so well on almost no water. Their leaves stay bright green. Some perhaps aren't a part of the former eco-system.

There are also notabutterflies, and notaflowers, and notagrasses. What I mean is, many of the usual insects are not around, and the bugs and bees here are not familiar despite the nearly 30 years I've lived in this area. I've seen and posted pictures with new grasses and ground cover and flowers, some which may be merely hardy heritage varieties from our past, brought in to the rescue. I've seen hybrid birds, and miss roadrunners and bobwhites and mourning doves. I miss seeing armadillos, and the fish in some of the creeks. They may still be around, but if so, they're not visible in the kind of frequency they once were.

It is hard to accept that the intricate chain of life that evolved over eons is extensively damaged by the drought and other causes. But, I'm grateful that there are signs of some recovery even as drought and other challenging conditions (including use of insecticides and herbicides) continue. I'm grateful for whatever help the new species provide in protecting the earth from erosion, providing food for squirrels, birds, insects. I'm grateful for the people working so hard to maintain a safety net to soften the effects of collapse within the system, and for neighbors planting sunflowers and wildflowers. I'm grateful for the shade.

we pause in the shade
to breathe the sweet light
of magnolia petals