Tag: birds

The Only Good Way to Get a Really Good Suntan is to Start with a Really Bad Burn

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

And tomorrow I will circumautolate another part of the country, virgin to me, assuming I make it onto the plane.  We fly to AriZona to visit River's parents.  They say they have enough water but I am afraid they will try to tap into her, claiming genetic rights of appropriation.  Gila, Salt, Colorado, her.  I imagine large red rock formations, poisonous creatures of sand, water-hoarding cacti, shimmers of heat appearing to rise in the distance off of the road we are traveling.  Lizards, near-tropical birds, political animals, billboards, a pool, a cadre of golf courses.  I need only the stars, a red light and enough sobriety to make a little sense of a timeless sky.  I will not pack any of my meths but I shall be able to get plenty of them there, for paper scratch.


Full travelogue here...

Montanada

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I wanted to get through the first section of this notebook on this trip.  The pages in this section are edged in blue.  I've got a ways to go, sorry to say.  I did not do enough describing of areas.  I was reluctant to write in the car and thereby pissed a lot of decent words down the drain.  I would have said more about how the plains looked once we were on the eastern side of the park, looking out toward the east.  It was what I called Custer's view.  East of the park, on the fat part of the divide, the land begins the process of flattening out and it's as though you can see for miles and miles and miles.  Maybe you can.  The colors were a range of maize yellows and sun-bleached wheat whites and dull greens and then of course the blue of the sky—that dumbstruck, blue-lipped blue.  The sky was free of clouds as we drove north to Canada on Wednesday but it was accentuated and supported by fairly high altostratus on the way back down.  It was mackerel sky in spots, probably my favorite day sky.

There was champagne—well, prosecco—in our room at the Belton yesterday.  It sat in a little ice bucket on a tray along with a card of congratulations and two up-ended champagne flutes.  B had told them it was our 10-year anniversary trip, which was true.  It was the same brand of prosecco as was waiting in the fridge at our cabin (Reclusive Moose), for Patrick and Anne-Marie in recognition of their tenth.  This was not coincidence.  One of the co-owners of the cabin is the general manager at the Belton.  The other co-owner was waiting tables at the restaurant there last night.  Small town in a small world, I guess.

Continue reading about this trip to Montana and Canada...

Eagles in Winfield, MO: Lock and Dam #25

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

1

We left here at two minutes to nine—nine being when we were to be at the Vaughans' house.  I had rushed to get my backpack filled with the right things.  As I sat it in the backseat, I remarked to myself, "This bag is heavy."

At the Vaughans' place, Anne-Marie was ready to greet us as we made to knock.  We piled into her Scion, for what reason I never inquired. I was kind of disappointed because I really like riding in Pat's Vibe.  Pat still drove.  I rode shotgun and felt I had nothing to say.  Pat made the left from I-170 North to I-70 West (a turn he once made in error, begging Billy's chagrin at the White Birch disc golf course, but I digress).  I thought: he's done it again—why are we getting on Interstate 70 West when Grafton and the eagles are east of here?  But I didn't say anything, except for a small prayer that I said only to myself (and God).

Through the airport area on Interstate 70 is a nasty speed trap—Berkeley, Edmundson, St. Ann: the various airport municipalities, some more obscure than others.  Pat wasn't exactly laying off it but I didn't see any cops.  Eventually they were there (two of St. Ann's finest), but one had gotten out to share some hot intel with the other and Pat saw the guy's fluorescent highlighter vest and eased up. 

That disaster averted, I got back to worrying about where in the hell we were going.  I thought, "Is he going to take Lindbergh to 367?"  That's not the way I would have gone, and we would lose a little time, but it would get the job done—I guess.  Nope.  Then we flew by the ramp to get onto I-270 and I was completely confused.  I resorted to consoling my worry by thinking, "Okay.  There's some other place, along the Missouri River that's really good for seeing eagles, that Pat knows about because he's got the whole St. Charles County-sort-of country street smarts thing going on."  Except that B and I had recently mentioned to Pat and Anne-Marie that we (me and B) had driven up along the Great River Road to Grafton on Christmas (with my sister Emily and her boyfriend, Rob) and we had seen a boatload of eagles along the way.  If Pat knew about a sweet spot for eagle watching that was somehow better, he didn't mention it then.

I started to worry that his plan was to take a series of ferries to get us to Grafton, something we had done once when we all went to Grafton for my birthday one September.  On that occasion we first took the Golden Eagle ferry across the Mississippi to Golden Eagle, IL before then taking the Brussels ferry across the Mississippi yet again to Grafton.  This possibility concerned me because I was pretty sure that neither of those two ferries was running today.  I'd checked.  The winter has been quite cold and best I could tell from the websites for those ferries—and from Twitter—the ferries were shut down because of ice build-up on the river.  The Winfield ferry, which I'd never been on and didn't even realize existed, had apparently started running in the last day or so, but Winfield was a bit further north.  If we headed up that way, it might be our only option but even then: if the Brussels ferry wasn't running it wasn't clear to me how we'd get to Grafton.  Either way, it was looking like we were going to be spending more time in the car than I had imagined and I was starting to fret just a bit...


The eagles are just ahead...

Farm Party, Fall 2013

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

Then E Vaughan.  He unwraps and tosses a potay—it lands with a thud.  I go and get more wood from the creek bed.  Patrick helps, drags back a cedar.  E Vaughan is working on the tractor.  Will it start? 

Putt, putt, huff, huff... 

"Come on, baby!" 

"Now we have liftoff!" 

"Don't start counting your chickens yet."

Patrick saws.  B offers up the last two cinnamon rolls.  Bucky and Sarah are down, getting their stuff together.  There was a day, down here, the first Sunday, when we were eager for getaway....

E Vaughan backs the tractor up the hill...


My first Farm Party account...

WI/MN 2013

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

"Enough planning, un-planning, re-planning, and planning for a lack of a plan. I am packed, I am ready, I am waiting."

— John Randell Cabot, Lake Superior, 1687

1

Lostant
rain on the pavement
good light, power lines & their
towers.

Toluca, Tonica, Winona
Mammatus clouds, water
drips down, hits my
face when
I open the
window.

A nut bar, worry of heartburn.
I went around the corner only to
have a cigarette.  But then Pat
has one and I wonder why I hid it.

State highway 6, Ottawa/La Salle-Peru
On the Illinois River.  Nice place?

There are a lot of windmills, and
an exit for highway 30 to Sterling,
to Aurora—where I went to school once...


Continue with this travel poem...

I am Attending To a Sunrise in Jamaica

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

First Full Day — morning

I am attending to a sunrise in Jamaica.  Rightly I am not awake yet.  Waves, waves, dolorous waves.  Peltering shores at dayfall.

Why is it getting light in the west before it gets light in the east? The east is dark, blue.  A tiny boat out ripping the water is black.

Last night a jumbo airliner flew in from Costa Rica, I’m sure of it.

Brett got a taste, Pat a tree.  I put a tiny leaf in my pocket & smiled at the smell.



Full account here...

Misc. Haiku 61-65

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

61
When I closed my eyes
The sun went behind a cloud,
And it was Friday

62
I can remember
When I didn’t even know
What Lowe’s was

63
On a branch silhouetted
By my neighbor’s window,
A cardinal braces

64
In the midst
Of a roaring party,
An old coffee cup, broken

65
As I wonder
At a light bulb —
It bursts in my face

Advice for Endangered Species

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

   The ruddy turnstone of America
       died before my eyes.   This
    poem is inspired by
           but not about her.

     I tried to convince the great libraries
     to pump me full of rotten fruit.
     I tried and died?
     No I tried and failed.

  NASCAR cars awake to find themselves
  empty of engines but slathered in spit and lipstick.
      The Vice Presidents have all
      gone to pasture, revving
      like Alzheimer cows.

Meanwhile, on the North Slopes...
  The polar bears are all dead,
   even the ones we've eaten. The polar bears are all dead,
   even the ones we've eaten. The polar bears are all dead,
   even the ones we've eaten. The polar bears are all dead,

        I admit
        it's late and I don't know
        who to vote for.

 Sunrise in my eyes, coffee and rubles.
 This is the American Dream.

Please wait while I await another line.