Scavenger

/ Fran Haley / 16 Comments

My newlywed son and his bride are still settling into their home here in the countryside. Every day they savor the sunrise over the pond and the wildlife that takes their presence in stride. Red-shouldered hawks sail in and out of the trees. White-tailed deer creep to the edge of the yard at night, their eyes glowing in the firelight from the backyard pit.

One day, my son said: “I think we have a raccoon. Or a possum. Something is getting into our trash every night and scattering it all over the yard.”

“What will you do?” I asked.

“For now, just watch and see if we can figure out what it is.”

So it was that as my son and my daughter-in-law were sitting by the firepit one crisp evening, they heard the telletale rattle of plastic from the trashcan.

The creature had arrived.

My boy and his bride strained their eyes, trying to make it out.

Small. Not gray. Not a possum.

A bit of brown, a patch of white…not a raccoon.

They finally got a good look at the wild thing:

A dog.

A beagle, to be precise.

With a great deal of coaxing, the skittish scavenger finally crept over to them on its belly.

Covered in layers of greasy residue, wearing a monstrous shock collar that had left a bald place on its neck, the little dog slithered over and submitted himself to his new family, who loved him from that very first moment. They bathed him, fed him, cut away the collar and pitched it, took him to the vet, made every effort to find the owner (no chip). They give him meds to rid him of heartworms.

His name? Buddy. That’s what they called out to him, the night he was hiding in the brush, deciding if he could trust them or not.

“Come here, buddy,” they’d called. “It’s ok, buddy. We won’t hurt you.”

They have learned that they have to keep the dog food secured or he’ll bust into it when they’re gone…the scavenger days are too recent, plus, beagles are known to gorge themselves.

Buddy seems to have learned, though. that his days of insecurity are over.

He’s made himself at home:

He’s even made a new friend that he utterly adores:

Dennis the dachshund has been most gracious toward his new sibling…he just won’t be outdone for attention, as you can see.

I’ll say it for my husband, for my boy and his wife, for their two cats, two guinea pigs, and hammy little dachshund: There’s one more thing to love and cherish here in our neck of the woods.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge

Glorious

/ Fran Haley / 12 Comments

Last Friday, in preparation for the advancing winter storm, our school system dismissed three hours early.

This gift, so to speak, would take an unexpected and exponential turn.

Driving along brine-dusted backroads many thoughts crowded my mind…concerns about work, about people in my life who are facing battles…all I really wanted was to get home, to rest, to feel hopeful for a little snow, as we’d gone over a thousand days without any measurable snowfall. My granddaughter Micah, age three, has only seen flurries on a mountain vacation. She’s never made a snowman.

It’s hard to remember exactly what my thoughts were as I rounded the bend where a patch of woods borders a field:

I glimpse the body of the deer by the roadside. Bright pink innards exposed, the only shock of color in the entire brown-gray landscape… when suddenly there are wings extended wide, curled at the ages…

Buzzard, says my brain. I see them all the time. But in that instant, a flash of white.

An eagle. An eagle. An eagle. Rising on its mighty wings, barely three feet away.

Oh oh oh.

I don’t know how I know, I just do: it’s not really flying away.

I’ve already passed, so I stop the car to look in the rearview mirror.

It’s still there. Plain as day, back at the carcass.

Only one thing to do…

I drive a short distance for the first safe place to turn around. Happens to be a tiny church tucked into the woods. I pull onto its driveway – broken concrete, in need of repair – and call my husband while circling round:

You won’t belive what I just saw – an eagle by the road! Eating a deer!

Wow…you better keep your eyes on the road. Be careful.

That’s just it, though. I WAS keeping my eyes on the road.

I am still keeping my eyes on the road, going back…

It’s still there.

I know I can’t get too close or it will fly again.

No other cars are coming down the road in either direction, so I get a short video:

Apologies for the erratic movement…

The video doesn’t capture the magnificence of the bird, and I wish I could have recorded it taking flight, the incredible majesty and grace of it, like some kind of winged dancer… I had to move on before someone came around the bend and found me stopped in their path.

I took the next road on the left…

The name of it, on a green street sign: Glory Road.

One more time I passed the field, slowly. One more time I saw the eagle, just as a school bus came along behind me…I had to keep going, but could see, in a quick rearview mirror check, that the bus had slowed. Not because of me; there was plenty of distance between us. Not to make a drop-off, either.

I am sure that bus was full of children who, like me, paused to see the eagle for a moment, so close, so huge, rising on its glorious wings.

Right there in sight of Glory Road.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Writing Challenge

Note: Eagles primarily eat fish. In winter, when fish are harder to come by, eagles will eat roadkill. I almost entitled this post “Provision.”

Skittering

/ Fran Haley / 7 Comments

Bleak gray morning
cold cold rain
Welcome to school, kids
how was your holiday?

Long long day
shivering in the drafts
whispers drift the halls
ruminant rumors of flu

Weariness in the bones
driving, driving home
a leaf rolls across
the gray gray road

-wait.
That’s not a leaf.

Tiny tiny legs
tiny tiny tail
gray gray mouse
infinitely frail

running, running
for all it’s worth
across the gray gray road

after all the traps
I’ve set in my house
I want to cry
for this one small mouse

make it, please make it
to a warm safe place
away from this road
and the cold cold rain

a stab in my heart
for the tiny tiny thing
in this big big world
so full of pain

yet

a teeny tiny spark
on this gray gray day
to keep me skittering on
my homeward way

Field mouse. Vincent Cornelius.

*******
Happy New Year to all
and may you find joy
every day
in the littlest things
that come your way

Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge




Firepetals

/ Fran Haley / 1 Comment

It would warm
any fantasy writer’s heart

this magical pillow fort

constructed in Franna’s
Spare Oom
during Christmas

Never mind the season

for in the hands of the creator
everything is made new

like the Halloween tree
guarding the inner tent entrance

a cone adorned with
black and orange ornaments
has become a pillar
of ember and ash
cascading into firepetals
(left over from a wedding)
where chunks of stars
(harvested from an old
crib mobile)
have come to rest

much like the creator herself
savoring the fruits of her labors
(having been aided by Franna
and Big Sister, definitely magical)

now stretching out on her back
little bare feet
to the firepetals

cozy and content

clutching her baby
while gazing up through the window
at the wintersky

for, as any fantasy writer knows,

worldbuilding is hard work

not to mention
most gratifying

The worldbuilder, age 3, resting in her fort with her doll “Jape” on her chest

And a little child shall lead

/ Fran Haley / 8 Comments

This is a story of two brothers not in the Bible, not Cain who was angry with Abel over his offering and slew him, not Esau who might have done the same to Jacob save for their mother’s intervention (after her part in the division), but of two little boys in the current millenia, carrying school breakfast trays, as the older begins shouting at the younger and a teacher steps in.

What’s the matter? Why are you shouting at him? The rest of us do not appreciate hearing those kinds of words, says the teacher.

The smaller boy stops in front of the teacher. His bright face is utterly untroubled. It’s okay. You see, I am his brother.

The teacher pauses. You are used to this.

The bigger brother turns back, face like a thundercloud, voice blasting: And I dropped my freakin’ biscuit!

You can get another one, begins the teacher, when the younger boy takes off running, calling his brother’s name. The teacher follows in case intercession is needed.

Here, says the little one. You can have my biscuit.

The teacher blinks back tears. You don’t want your biscuit?

The little boy shakes his head. He places the proffered bread on his brother’s tray.

The older brother’s face eases. Anger abates; tentative calm settles in.

Thank you, he says, his voice low.

You owe your brother an apology, says the teacher, after the way you have just been shouting at him.

I’m sorry, he says. He turns away, but not before the teacher sees deep sadness in his eyes.

Wait! calls his little brother. You can have my jelly, too. You like jelly on your biscuit.

The teacher bends down to whisper in his ear: That is a beautiful thing you just did.

The brothers go off together in peace. The teacher watches, awed and humbled. The morning is still new, the day has only just begun, an unholy moment has been transfomed by a child’s purehearted act of sacrifical love, in his offering of bread and grape jelly.

The teacher thinks: If the world ended right now, I’d die having witnessed one of life’s greatest acts. Oh, to be so selfless, to learn the unforced rhythms of grace, to follow that child’s lead!

The bell rings.

Work awaits

Biscuit. Joshua Heyer. CC BY-SA

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Challenge

Three song

/ Fran Haley / 7 Comments

for my granddaughter

When I tell you your story
in all the years to come
you will remember
bits and pieces
on your own

because Three
records memory

I will tell you of these days
my own autumn
in which you paint
infinite points of opal-fire
against charcoal-ash sky

because Three
is alchemy

I will tell you how my heart sings
at sight of you running
as hard as you can
your little arms held out
to me, to me

because Three
is utter glee

And I will tell you how I listen
as still as I can be
when you sing snippets
of hymns…
oh, always, always abide with me

beautiful Three
ever holy

love you forever, Micahroni – Franna

*******

with thanks to Linda Mitchell for hosting Spiritual Journey Thursday writers with this invitation: “As we enter Native American Heritage Month I ask that you respond to Joy Harjo’s Fall Song in any way that makes your heart happy.”

Our two granddaughters make my heart and Grandpa’s as happy, and as awed, as they have ever been. We pray thanksgiving every day.

Color me darkly poetic

/ Fran Haley / 7 Comments

Here’s my little seasonal spin on a paint chip poetry prompt during last week’s Ethical ELA Open Write, hosted by Seana Hurd.

The very instant I learned the name of this nail polish, it was begging to be in a poem…

Lincoln Park After Dark

Told the nail technician I’d like dark red
for fall you, know. Here’s what she said:
“No no no. Try this instead.”

Lincoln Park After Dark

Whoa, wait a second – is that black?
Will folks think I’m goth? Or cracked?
Too old for Halloweenish wack?

Lincoln Park After Dark

—turns out to be deep purple, friends
a bit Beaujolais or raisin; it depends
on the light and where perception ends.

Lincoln Park After Dark

As the tech painted these nails of mine
she offered this “intrickate” design:
a spiderweb, but I drew the line.

Lincoln Park After Dark

is enough on its own, you see.
Already I am cloaked in mystery
my mind off on a midnight spree

(with autumnal specters watching me

a-walkin’)

Lincoln Park After Dark

*******

with thanks to:

Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge
the nail tech who suggested this magical color
and the poet-friends at Ethical ELA

Descent of doves

/ Fran Haley / 6 Comments

Every evening around suppertime, they come.

The doves.

They adore my birdbath. Sometimes three of them cram in together. I think of the ancient Roman Baths, a place to gather and socialize, to share the events of the day while washing the grime away.

One dove tends to linger longer than the others, immersed in the water, fluffed to the size of a chicken.

As if staking claim to her personal pool.

Other birds do not know what to think about it. Occasionally another will land, say, a female cardinal. She sits cautiously, eyeing the dove. After a furtive sip she flits away.

The dove stays put. Doesn’t move a feather. Rather regal.

What I find most compelling is the effect of seeing the doves, of knowing they will come.

They represent peace, of course. Even if I didn’t know this, I think they’d impart it to me. They don’t fuss. They are gentle. Peaceable. Beautiful, in their impeccably smooth, pale-sand plumage. Restful, there in the still waters.

Most often I see two together, surely a mated pair, and the carol plays in my head: On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me two turtledoves and a partridge in a pear tree.

Infinite symbolism, really. Spiritual, biblical…a sign of covenant. Of blessing.

In these days leading up to another heart surgery for my husband, when life is hitting the pause button yet again, the daily descent of doves in the evening imparts a calm I cannot fully articulate. I watch for them and they come. I refill the water for them and they savor it.

They do not know they’re between hunting seasons. It resumes here in early November.

I can’t bear to think of it, my sweet and precious birds. I didn’t even know until today that one of your collective nouns is a piteousness. To me it’s an unspeakable pity to kill such lovely and harmless creatures. So much in this world is a shattering, scattering pity.

Like the doves, none of us can know what lies ahead of us, all around us, in wait for us.

That thought was behind the closing stanza of a poem I wrote yesterday:

Yet again I cope with life on pause
redirecting my energy, because
no one can know what tomorrow will bring
only certainty that birds still sing, still sing
Come evening, a settling of doves
upon my birdbath. Oh, my loves, my loves—

Life is passing by

How I need this daily descent of doves. Their stillness, their peace.

My weary spirit rests with them in these moments and is refreshed.

See you at the baths tonight, my dears.

If you look closely you can see the female cardinal in the background, wondering if she might gather at the water, too.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge

The apparition

/ Fran Haley / 9 Comments

I can’t sleep.

Don’t know why. Not anxious or worried. No thoughts churning.

After an hour or two of tossing and turning, I give up.

I toss the covers, grab my robe (plush emerald green, floor-length, with a hood; wearing it makes me feel like an ancient Celt).

Don’t need to turn on the hallway lights. There’s already light. Thin and silvery, from the blind-occluded windows. The moon is waxing. Hunter’s Moon and supermoon in the making, the biggest and brightest of the year.

The heat comes on for the first time this season. New HVAC system hardly makes a sound. Just the faintest hum.

Don’t know why I peek through the blinds of the kitchen window, toward the east. Habit? Curiosity? Expectancy? This is where I recently saw the nutria, a thing I never saw before, out in the yard by the birdbath. In daylight, though. What should be here in these predawn hours?

No creatures, but the stars above are spectacular.

Mars and Jupiter are easy to spot. Orion’s belt, three brilliant rhinestones. Sirius, the Dog Star, brightest of all, seems to be calling…

The pull is immense. 2:15 a.m. is too early to be so wide awake and far too early to be outside, but why not go see what I can see?

I turn on the back deck light for moment to be sure no creatures are afoot (say, a nutria, a skunk, a coyote; granted, I’ve not seen the latter in my backyard, but they’re known to be around).

No creatures. I switch off the light and slip out into the chilly stillness, glad of my heavy robe.

The moon peeks through the tops of tall pines. If it were not obscured, I could read a book by its silver-white radiance.

For a minute I play with my Skyview phone app, identifying constellations and stars with which I am not so familiar (Procyon, in Canis Minor; its name means before the dog. I like this. I’ve been trying to convince my husband to get a puppy since Dennis the dachshund moved out with our newlywed son).

Then I just listen. The night is so still about me. Close. Hushed. Breathless. Again that word comes to mind: Expectancy. In the distance, the low hooting of an owl.

Right about then is when I see movement above the trees in the eastern sky. Something gliding from the south.

A pale outline, conical, almost like the nose of a blimp. That’s my first thought: Blimp.

I can only see the nose. The rest is shrouded.

White-veiled, ethereal, sailing northward above the horizon… a giant ghost ship navigating the sky.

—What am I seeing?

I manage to shoot a quick video:

I want to follow it, to see where it goes, but it’s quickly gone.

I need to know.

Back in the house, I start researching comets. Surely that’s what this is? I have never seen anything like it. The video doesn’t capture the enormity of it nor its spiritlike quality.

Turns out that comets are predicted this week. In astronomy, their sighting is referred to as an apparition. Fitting. This apparition doesn’t seem to match the descriptions I’m reading. I learn that there’s supposed to be an Orionid meteor shower caused by the tail of Halley’s Comet in a few days, but the comet itself isn’t supposed to be visible again until 2061.

The universe plays by its own rules. Dances to its own inner tune. I missed the aurora borealis last week, the northern lights flinging their colorful fringes this far south, and I was saddened. One day, I’m determined, I shall see them in all their wild, diaphonous glory.

For the moment, I’ll be trying to solve the mystery of the heavenly body I saw on this cold, still morning when I could not sleep and was drawn to the exact spot at the exact time to witness its appearing.

Awed to my very bones.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge
(my experience this morning reminds me that writing is also about
showing up to see what comes)

A tail to tell

/ Fran Haley / 12 Comments

I happened to catch sight of it through my kitchen window.

A big brown creature in the yard, over by the birdbath.

First thought: Neighbor’s cat.

But in the milliseconds it takes to process thought, I knew the creature was too big, too low to the ground, too oddly-shaped, too uniformly brown to be the cat.

Oh! A groundhog.

They’re pretty common around here, usually sighted standing up by the roadside like little totems.

The groundhog sniffed the air like a dog…what does it smell?

I grabbed my phone for a photo. Better yet, a video…the granddaughters will want to see this…

The groundhog bunched itself up. Humpbacked, it made an about-face and trotted away alongside the fence toward the woods.

That’s when I saw its tail.

A very long, very ratlike tail.

You are not a groundhog.

Their tails are furry. Wider, flatter.

Clearly not a beaver, although, come to think of it, how does one tell a beaver from a groundhog unless one actually sees the tail?

What ARE you, strange creature?

A muskrat.

I showed the video of the muskrat to my husband.

“It’s HUGE!” he said. “I thought muskrats were a lot smaller.”

“It has that rat tail,” said I.

I showed the video to friends at church.

“It’s not a muskrat,” said one, an avid outdoorsman. “It’s a nutria.”

My husband and I have lived in these parts for over thirty years and have never seen a nutria before (to our knowledge; maybe a former “groundhog” or two may have been this creature instead?).

We had never even heard that nutria live ’round here.

My daughter-in-law, a Louisiana native, knew it right away: “Oh, a nutria rat!”

I looked them up.

Nutria have frothy white whiskers and giant, terrifying orange teeth. They live in marshlands. This one was headed back through the woods toward a field; marshes are nearby, but in all the recent rains, everything out here is marshy. Nutria also detroy wetland ecosystems (I learned on Wikipedia that Louisiana loses wetland acreage the size of a football field every hour). Needless to say, the creature is a rodent. Invasive. A nutria can weigh upwards of twenty pounds. They carry diseases that can be transmitted to humans.

I stopped reading these fun facts and switched to symbolism instead.

In various cultures, nutria stand for good luck. Balance. Humility. Resourcefulness. Strength. Resilience. Prosperity. The interconnectedness of all things.

I’ll be honest: It had a rather friendly face (I couldn’t see the teeth).

Its rather inocuous name means “mouse-beaver.”

In Brazil, however, nutria are called ratão-do-banhado: big swamp rat.

I gotta say the Brazilians hit the tail—er, nail—on the head.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge