The Solstice Snare

Even now, A thin glow hovers over summer’s dying sky.

The clock chimes ten,

the pull is there:

tomorrow will be imperceptibly earlier than today

And the next day will check out just a wee bit sooner.

And so on.

We said our last goodbyes sometime the evening of June 26:

the latest sunset of the year.

It didn’t pass off in fireworks and cheers. In truth, the night before seemed grander: an open sky, first stars, and night herons,

Squawking from the inky darkness painted in twilight’s corners.

Sunset was a scant few seconds earlier that night.

With no hint of the big swing into winter commencing two days later.

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But I digress,

It all began on June 14th,

When the sun broke the horizon at its earliest point.

Celebrations began,

As the coastal fog had not shown that night,

And birds sang loud, in a pre-dawn clamor,

Along with a rooster

Still in its coop.

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Those 12 days of summer’s solstice,

Perhaps more magical in memories

Now that they are slipping away.

In the subtle agony of my machined throes:

hold on, rewind, see it again,

Like I missed something the first time through.

Like last year,

And the year before that.

And so on.

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Now mid-July

This slow fall long resumed. Gently pulled.

Through the staleness of what summer will become

Into the honeyed glory of Autumn, and winter,

Days gone meek,

Where mornings struggle just to raise a voice,

Resigned to a short, hopeless bridge between nights.

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Forget that we should hold these times.

Turn, instead, so that we might fly on golden wings,

Sparkling eyes,

Above this great turning wheel.

Love in the Time of Storms

One evening,

The door opened to all of life,

Everyone came to visit!

Except you, choosing instead

To light the sky

Against the gesturing silhouette of a thunderstorm.

The deft lines of rain summoning afternoon

To the hills behind my old home,

Seeming so still from here,

Like looking back in time,

When we held hands,

And the world felt quiet and steady

And open,

And futures loomed distant

Shadowed in the fleeting gift of now.

They were the departed ones

The beloved people,

Faces subtly strained,

Warped in the wanting months,

Distorted in a now thriving remorse,

Into hollowed landscapes of once hopeful vistas and fertile soils,

Now mantled in weeds,

Baked dry and stickery.

.

Meanwhile,

The boats on the bay,

Scoot through sparkling water

Bright sails,

Just beyond the skipping stones

Cast through silver bars

From havens of solitude.

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Turn westwards, to that single point

Where the day ends in its own beginning

Against ebbing tide

And the firm grasp

Of a mid-winter storm.

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Soon, they will gather,

Away from all this,

Following the ragged topographies

Lying along the frailest of lines,

Where distant waters

Return to the sky.

Slipping through narrow places

Wild, curly haired kids still chase candy-colored rocks

Across old sea floors, dotted with dandelions,

And the long yawn of summer gone stale,

All gathered up, into a lone rusty pail.

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This,

After swings in trees,

and secret swimming holes,

down long, easy roads,

Soothed in watermelon dreams,

While holding hands, with our heads in circles, catching the sky.

Her eyes, sparkling stars of night and oceans blue,

Whisper ice cream cones and a first kiss, too.

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Now, sun in smoke, searing

Cicadas singing,

That long dusty road of angst and dearth

All dried and sharp,

Our once cherished mirth.

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Hurry!

Bring us giddy hopes of weather and water,

and grand tales on the coming of storms,

Let times soon turn, and days delite

Those same stories,

Sparkling in that honey-colored light.

Wind (a fishing report – kind of)

The oak woodlands are bright green with the beginnings of wildflower carpets across the sunlit hillsides.  Along the river, the purple lupine and golden poppies celebrate the new sun.  This could be the quintessential spring scene except for one thing: the wind.  I saw the warnings – gusts up to 40 mph – on the heels of the storm passing to the east.  Wind that’s in a hurry to race in a big counter-clockwise arc to fuel a storm over the Rockies.   All the little places where I might find a little respite are even more trouble as the wind eddies and swirls unpredictably in the lee of the bankside trees.

On the water, the mayflies and caddis come off in good numbers.  But the winged adults skitter along the water too quickly to offer easy pickin’s for the trout below.  Swallows maneuver across the water, handling the wind with ease, grabbing up the bugs.  Not a single trout can be seen on the surface.  There’s no need, they can simply grab the bugs ascending in the water column and forgo the unpredictable surface fare.  Normally, this would be an afternoon of steady surface-feeding fish.  But not today.  A few productive reaches are visited – all with the same wind-whipped setting.  Instead, I take the time to explore two potential new sites.  Good water to be had.  But it will have to wait until another time.  I’ll be here all week – and hopefully have a chance at a classic spring day drifting dry flies for large, surface feeding trout.

Talking weather with the boys down the way

Here are the stories (summarized) that the old men down at the corner bar tell of the weather here on the coast.

Summer:  Fog rolls in and out.  When the fog is out the sea breeze kicks in fresh and brisk.  Sometimes the fog lays along the coast for days – not a ground fog, instead a low ceiling that hides the sun – an important distinction.  A few times over the summer, the fog’s ebb and flow will vanish, the wind will disappear.  The day will start warm and end warm.  The sea will be greasy flat.  This is when the boats run long distances searching for tuna.  The local farmer’s market swells through the summer – reaching a crescendo into the early fall.

Fall:  The best time of year.  The fog starts to get more playful.  It comes in lower, rolling across the bottoms like a wave swallowing everything up.  But it lapses, steamy warm days are most likely now.  Then the first rains come and settle the dust and the warm sun returns.  Maybe it will be a warm rain – sun – rain in a perfect march that lasts for weeks, though the fall rains seem to come later now.  Regardless, the sun’s angle now starts to cast everything in honey-colored light.  Clouds, sunsets, wet, dry and the first south winds keep everything in play.  Mushrooms start to show in the woods, rivers are refreshed.  Summer’s fruits and vegetables are still to be had.

Winter:  Big winds, long rains and chilly mornings hide some of the best days of the year:  well-lit celebrations after days of rain – maybe even warm then.  After the big storm, maybe a day or two of showery weather – rain-sun-rainbow-rain-sun – moving through the days – the temperate rainforest at work.

Spring:  First really warm days.  Showers, sneaky storms and attempts at summer.  Time to step outside and stretch and yawn – birds start singing in the mornings outside the window.  Things transition to summer when the Swainson’s thrush sings in the bushes.

The Places They Go

Nobody heralded the arrival of winter this year.

Soon enough, days hang still

Here we are.

On the cusp, the trailing end of something.

Unannounced winter.

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Leaden December sky,

Look west and see apricot sunshine

Spilling over everything.

Tell me your secrets here on the edge.

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Tomorrow the children will gather here

The snow gone in the oak woodlands

In the valley, the first flower peeks skyward

The children gather up their dreams and desires

All through the green grass

They gather them up as fast as they can

For Winter lives here a while longer.

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In the garden, a blue flower

Cobalt blue with a single black petal

Growing along the fence.

Do you remember?

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Do you remember,

When we walked along the creek?

Finding that same flower, the single black petal

The children all grown up

Now eating chocolate,

Cobalt blue flower chocolate

While they live their dreams.

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In the valley and through the oaks

We are still children

We gather up new dreams now

So that we might live them a little longer.

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Recall a still December afternoon,

Leaden skies, painted apricot

There we found a piece of Springtime,

And gathered it up as carefully as we could

Packing it gently for the walk down the hill.

Winter

Snow has been falling to near sea level for the last two days with record cold forecast for the next few days.  I dropped my camera while trying to take a picture of some pumpkin rolls I baked for a potluck.  The water temperatures in the river are hovering around five degrees C.  The rain we are getting is showery and much of it falling as snow in the watersheds – so the rivers remain very low and COLD.  A more typical storm is forecast for the weekend and this may well put us into coastal winter steelhead season in a big way – just need a little warmer weather for them to move for a swung fly.  stay tuned…things autumnal is transitioning into all things winter…

Descent into winter

These days

Falling into hushed calm

Of mornings lingering

And afternoons brief.

I cannot say

Those fearful words

We’re done

And yet you persist

And I find you there.

Find me again

Along the river

Starved for rain

As I gather the last memories

As fast as I can.

Swinging through the tailout on a river starved for rain under an incessant sun.
Swinging through the tailout on a river starved for rain under an incessant sun.

Early December is here and, save for the fleeting days, it could as well be late October.
Early December is here and, save for the fleeting days, it could as well be late October.