We stirred the deer

 Jordon and I while in search of Swallowtail Kites came upon some deer. 

On the wing

 On the wing

We saw them in the distance out in the fields

A wonderful soothing breeze so we pulled

up under an overhanging shady canopy

and got out to watch the display

when out of no where it seemed 

a swallowtail came too close for focus

went down the dirt road a ways then

Turned and flew straight to us.

It was a moment of slow motion

over as rapidly as he came as he

again disappeared

Lou Witt

 Lou Witt was an artist.I visited her home to deliver oxygen once and got to see some of her work while living. 

Mt Pleasant

 I visited the Mt Pleasant Church again after a thirty or more years hiatus. Little has changed other than the portrait was missing over the door and much more water damage has occurred. It’s a matter of time for its demise.

The sirens

 The sirens

In the days of old Williston High in the late

night the fire siren would hauntingly wail

long and frenetic at the station through all the town until one or two of the volunteers were mustered from slumber to crank ole engine two and off

to the rescue they’d go.

Today as we drove slowly past a soon gone old Williston High, emanating from the remaining structures was a strange siren like sound, haunting.

In the night long the siren will call, but in these

latter days, no volunteers will heed this siren.

The old gym door a thousand times I swung will go to a particular pile, the fast break from the

past complete.

Sing me the song of Williston again, sing it for those

fortunate to not see the day of the siren wailing.

One lily

 Rain lily

We have one 

Many have none

So glad

 So sad, so sad, he missed the sun

So glad, so glad the rain has come.

For without the rain

The sun would fry his brain

Judging

Tonight is the awarded who excelled at the Library show. My thought is it will be the usual Herb Ellis show. The reason I am sure i won first last year was Herb didn’t enter. There are others too, equally adept. We shall know at 5:30.

 

Soft the fist

 Soft the fist

The Spirits such a kind, kind friend

He comes to us in our darkest mares

And for a spell tarry’s there

To listen to the tormentor telling

Do you not remember his hitting

How his words were so hurting

And you turn to deflect the blow

Frantic with no place left to go

Then the Spirit tells the tormentor 

Enough of your blows upon this soul

And breathes into the wounds healing

Deep, deeper while you are sleeping

And in the morning waking anew

A faint whisper comes to oppress

But somehow in the night to you

The terrible fist was turned to caress.

The night caller

 Night Caller

In the early hours of the deepest slumber

The little boy was wakened with a whisper

Calling him to come and join their number

It was a whisper once so familiar 

But the little boy was fearful to obey

And told no one of this whispering friend

Lest they chide him as when in vision

He once said he saw angels visiting 

The following evening at the same hour

Came the whispering one only much urgent

We haven’t time to tarry! For you I’m sent

Rise and we shall find the lost moments.

And so the boy arose and he did gladly go

With the night caller all was relived again

There was time with never a moment parting

He knew deeply all the passing scenes

The morning sun awoke him after many years

Was it a life upon lives lived so brief

Whatever it was the whispering one said

Eternity he was certain was but a continuation.

The slough way

 The slough way

John Clare Stokes

There is a place near the slow flowing upper Suwannee

Where the sand is white beneath palmetto thick, where

the track of the turkey and deer converge

beneath the shade of the grand, cool mystic 

In the impassible murky beyond the winding creek

The sound of rustling coming in the boggy way

It’s the piney wood rooters passing through

We scurry for a way of safety from the tusky

Up the lazy old oak into the abandoned stand

A pileated is startled to see the form of man

In time the beaded red eyed troop move on

All quiet resumes to consume the slough below

We saunter down not in a particular hurry

Wary lest the moccasin stirred from slumber

Strikes to count us among his number

Sure to follow close the well tracked trail out

Leaving this slough of the denizens of Suwannee

Past the sleeping foot washed ones of Prospect

There was no place upon earth we’d rather be

Than lost in the canopy of the primitive tree.

At Granny’s

 At Granny's

John Clare Stokes

Pappa she kept tightly in the urn upon the mantle place 

Great Granny's wooden leg propped open the bedroom breezeway

Nights I'd try and get to sleep quickly

Before granny came shuffling in with cold cream on her face

Through the cracks and chinks the wind whispered

Who is that lying in the feathered bed

Do we hold a wake for another now dead

Now it's just the wind I was assured.

Then from the Florida room a fiddle 

Upon the cool hard pine floor a tapping

Someone in there an old rhythm keeping

I dared not wake to peek in.

By morning rooster waking I asked

Granny did you enjoy last nights company

She smiled and dipped some Tube Rose slowly

Went about the early days tasks humming

Seems we weren't in this place by ourselves

I eventually grew accustomed to pappa Urn on the shelf

Great granny letting in the cool wind to warm by the hearth

Never invited but I eventually looked 

Forward to the midnight fiddling to begin.