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Rhymes of a National Park Naturalist
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And turned up onto the road. Its lights swept over the ball field An instant the goal posts showed. The gleam passed over the bleachers. The seats stood out clear in the beam. The hands of my watch, in the bright light, Showed the time to be just six fifteen. The car passed back of the bleachers. The hum of its engine ceased. I shivered, and turned up my collar. The breeze blew cold from the east. The tops of the trees stood out clearly 'Gainst the pink of the eastern sky, And the star of the morning twinkled, And paled, and twinkled on high. A light sprang up in a window. Cut a path with its ray through the gloom. It blinked, showed steady, then flickered As someone moved 'round in the room. A milk wagon passed up the driveway. The squawk of a querulous hen Was borne on the wings of the chill wind. I coughed and shivered again. From far down the street came a yodel. It was answered from westward somewhere. 'Way down by the chemistry building Someone whistled the tune "Over There." I heard the crunching of cinders. Two figures loomed up in the dark. They passed in front of the bleachers. Far away, I heard a dog bark. The sky was beginning to brighten. The light was lifting the shroud. Down below, in front of the grandstand, Had assembled a goodly sized crowd. I heard the clear shrill of a whistle. Came the call "Comp'ny A on the line!" I left my hard seat in the bleachers To hunt up the squad that was mine. Note: The S.A.T.C. (Student Army Training Corps) was established in many colleges and universities in the fall of 1918 to prepare young men for service in World War One.
There's where the cat-tails and the water lillies grow, There's where my sweep still lies stuck in the willows, There's where there's nothing left but wire grass to mow. There's where the frogs sing their songs in merry chorus, There's where the water snakes are thick as German spies, There's where mosquitos are humming ever o'er us, There's where the sun blazes down from brassy skies. There stands the rake with one wheel bent nearly double, Only twelve teeth where there should be twenty-four, Tongue cracked in two. Deserted in its trouble. Fixed up next spring, 'twill be used a few years more. Down in the slough, half embedded in the swamp muck, Seat cracked in two and the tongue pulled nearly out, Half the guards gone, abandoned where the team stuck, There stands the mower, fixed next year without a doubt. So, carry me back to the Cronberg meadows, That's where the cat-tails and the water lilies grow, There's where my sweep still lies stuck in the willows, There's where there's nothing left but wire grass to mow. Gone are the days When a fellow worked in peace Come the mosquitos. Will their humming never cease? Swarming they come From the meadows by the shore I hear their piping voices humming "We want gore!" They're coming. They're coming. From the fields of grass and mud. I hear their piping voices humming "We want blood!" It's a long way to Colorado, It's a long way to go. It's a long way to Colorado To the finest place I know Farewell Rasmus Cronberg, Goodbye Medicine Bow. It's a long, long way to Colorado, But I'm going to go.
When stars peep out at night. In houses here and there The "fan" snaps on his light. He jams his headphone on his ears And twists the tuner. Ah, he hears! Tilts back his chair. A smile appears. There is music in the air. There is music in the air Where cold night breezes blow. By a mountain lake so fair Up near timberline, and snow. Wrapped in a blanket to his chin The camper sits with a happy grin And by his campfire "listens in" To the music in the air. There is music in the air. Out on the sun-baked plains. But the ranchers gathered there Forget their toil-caused pains. A fox trot starts; Away they go With scuffling heel and sliding toe To a lively tune from a radio Getting music from the air.
Why are you so pale and white Shivering in the pre-dawn light? Like a disc of summer mist Floating in the azure west, Shrinking from the light of day, Cringing from the sun's bold ray. Just a few short hours ago You beamed down on all below, Calm and smiling in your right Sole commander of the night. Stars grew dim at your advance. Stopped their twinkling nightly dance. Silken clouds that blocked your path Fled before your cold, white wrath. Mistress of the night you were, Now, how pale and wan you are. Fleeing, now your reign is done, Fleeing from the rising sun. Goodbye moon!
Admired itself in the looking glass, Watching its radiance scintillate, Superb, supreme, of the highest class. Serene, and haughty, and proud it lay Flashing first ruby, then purple, and green Perfect in shape and in polish, a gem Fit for the crown of a king or a queen. Pushed out of sight by a hurried broom, Lay an ugly, grimy, black lump of coal. Common, and coarse, and sooty, and rough From its scarred outside to its plebeian soul. Spurned by the janitor's heavy boot, Cursed by the coal heaver, sticky with sweat, Hated by housewife lest some careless foot Should grind it in carpet spotless as yet. Darkness and gloom hide the deeds that are done, And men sell their souls the diamond to gain, While coal feeds the fires that turn the huge wheels Of factory, steamship, sawmill, and train. Thousands may freeze that their lords may possess A jewel to sparkle and gleam on his hand, While the coal heaped high in the dingy cars Brings comfort and warmth in another land. And yet they are brothers under the skin, Diamond like dewdrop or clear, limpid glass, Coal so gritty, and smutty, and rough, Carbon in crystal and carbon in mass. And so all the people we find in this world, 'Though of the same stuff, set their hearts on a goal. So, which will you be, the cold, priceless stone Or the warm-hearted, black, dirty, raw lump of coal?
She goes to Colorado A, She drives a limousine, I buy the gasoline; And in my future life She's going to be my wife. (How in the deuce do you get that way?) She told me so. She has a pup named Ling. I wash the dog-goned thing, Take it to walk each day, Keep common curs away, And when we spoon at night It has my thumb to bite (What the deuce is the big idea?) She says I must. I keep the social pace, Wear sideburns on my face, Part my hair east and west, Put perfume on my vest. (What the deuce do you do that for?) She tells me to. She rates a sorority, I think it's D.D.D. And when they throw a dance, I can't wear common pants, But, like the social ducks, I have to rent a tux (That's a deuce of a thing to do!) She says I must.
Where the brisk sage tang fills the rain-washed air, Where a quail calls clear from a near-by post And the sun smiles down from the sky, blue fair; To listen again for the mellow throb Of a spraying machine, and the driver's call To his well-fed team, and I long to rest In the orchard shade when the apples fall. I want to return on a soft spring night When the cherry leaves whisper a rustling tune, When the warm west wind is fragrance filled, Elusive, sweet perfume of orchard bloom; To stand once more on the mesa edge, With the sleeping valley spread out below, And the mellow moon tracing a glittering path O'er the golden Gunnison's rippling flow. I want to go up on Grand Mesa again When the sun sinks down in the ruby west, And the aspens, a ghost-army, white and still Spread their leafy tents for the errant guest; To sit for a while by the velvet lake Where the stars are mirrored in blue-black depths, And the rim-rock wind on its chilly breath Brings the distant splash of a leaping fish.
Busiest, happiest time of the year, With its evergreens, tinsel, and fat Santa Claus, Its spirit of friendliness, hope, and good cheer. I sit by the fire and look through once more The cards from them all, each rememb'ring friend Some long since departed, some near to me still, Each card with the name of the dear sender penned. And so, as I look at them stacked on this chair And calculate those I must buy, and I think How much they will cost — and these idle — I swear I wish folks would sign them with pencil, not ink.
'Twixt earth and sky, but stranger to them both, The narrow ledge clings close. The friendly shade Of overhanging, bulging wall seems loath To leave the firm 'though high support. But hold! What shadowy form takes shape within the gloom? Can that be masonry? Those tottering piles; Can they be walls of man-made vault and room? Silent and still the eerie ruins stand, A world apart; a world whose clock ran down. A breath, and it should spring to noisy life; The bark of dogs, a baby's wail. A town Whose builders dwelt in hope while, far below, Their fields of corn and beans, a verdant lawn — But what is missing here 'twixt then and now? A breath. That breath of life forever gone.
Take me back behind the scenes. Tell to me that ancient story Of Mt. Jemez in its glory, Of its mighty lava flood, Of its rivers, ash and mud; Tell me of your life, and then, Rito, speak to me of men. Tell me whence they came, and why They left this haven. Were you dry? Or did pestilence or foe Force those farmer folk to go? Tell me of the crops they grew, Of their food and of their brew, Of their gods and of their ways, How they spent the summer days; Tell me things that have been missed By the archeologist. Only you, oh little river, Only you can be the giver. Laughing ripples, stream so shallow, Deep the secrets which you hallow. Speak! We listen, humble, lowly. Speak, oh Rito de Frijole.
Where the roof and floor meet in the attic. I've braved all the risks of a slick, shingled chute Of a rain-drenched roof, while the static Cobwebs the night. I've risked many a slip. But still, down below, is that steady drip-drip. The stovepipe's equipped with an all-weather cap. I've tried all the new-fangled stains. I've daubed on the tar where the roofing o'erlaps, And still, whenever it rains, I rush for the dishpan, the one that won't tip, To put on the floor 'neath the constant drip-drip. At night when the curtains hang silent and still, The trees outside shiv'ring and weeping, And the moisture-filled breeze so dismal and chill Damps my face when I ought to be sleeping. I clench both my fists, and I chew on my lip As I list to that hated, unceasing drip-drip. The season of drought followed season of rain, Yet the thought of that drip was not downed. So I had a new roof built o'er my domain. With a sense of relief most profound I awaited a storm. I'd that leak on the hip! I was 'waked at 2:10 by drip-drip-drip-drip-drip.
Restlessly, ceaselessly sweeping. Searchlights, ribs of a mighty fan, Eagerly, urgently seeking. Each one a tapering finger of light Thrusting its shaft through the weight of the night, Groping for something that's just out of sight, Feeling, eternally feeling. Searchlights crisscrossing far to the west, Irresistibly searching. Searchlights combing the space between stars, Methodically, steadily reaching. Silvering a cloud for a flash, and away, Sweeping a huge, cold arc over the bay, So silent you FEEL each swift beam on its way, Feeling, eternally feeling.
The wild Nisqually, on its ceaseless quest, Sings low. A bat flits by. A cricket calls. The world is making ready for its rest. To westward, sharp against the glowing sky, Rise Crystal, Iron, Pyramid, and Wow; While, tinged with pink and saffron, cream and gold, The Mountain's filmy nightcap hides her brow. She seems to pause a moment, peering down, Her wrinkled visage bathed in softening light, To see that all her foothill children, trees, And birds, and beasts, are quiet for the night.
No summit lifts a friendly crown To break your frozen solitude, Or claim a share of your renown. Look down! All else is sky. Look down! On hill and plain, on sea and town; On clouds, those stately ships that ride Upon the rushing Arctic tide That sweeps and eddies 'round your throne Atop the shattered cone, alone. Look down! Oh grim, forbidding goal Whose glistening challenge stirs the soul. Look down! And glory in your height; Recall your ancient, thundering might; While, at your feet the crater's breath Alone proclaims it sleep — not death. It waits, perhaps, your slightest frown To wake. Oh, Tamanous, look down!
And beauty is nothing sans eyes to see. So a desert home on the Canyon's rim Has no meaning for you as it has for me. Yet Nature has sealed your transpiring pores, In place of each leaf a protective spine To discourage your foes, and your life is content In a spot that would soon bring a sad end to mine. A mouse has a home that you zealously guard In a hole 'neath your roots, while the insects are fed On your pollen profuse, and a hungry young deer Nips your succulent shoots, then in comfort to bed. The visitor shuns you with uplifted skirt, And remarks, "What a nuisance; it shouldn't be here!" Though one will occasionally have to admit That you really do add to the "atmosphere." |
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Rhymes of a National Park Naturalist dodge/sec8.htm — 19-May-2007 | ||