The Power of Positive Thinking

Leaves and branches,
Oscilloscopes tracing
Wind from gathering storms,
Taunt my habit
Of hunting curses
under each blessing
And copping exhaustion
To avoid getting the shakes
From a momentary lapse
Of despair. Sunlight
Always gets me down,
Keeping me inside lest
It warm my eyelids and ask me to rest
In a dangerously peaceful grace.

I’m not sure I know
How to say something earnest
when nothing is weighing me down,
Not sure how to speak
An uplifting word
Without the ashes
Of profanity
Clinging to my tongue.
There is a way of seeking joy
That requires
Gouging out one’s eyes,
And I like looking
Too much to try it,
Even on sale.

It’s easier to look
For beauty in the dark,
Glowing brighter the farther from
What is plainly seen.
If I learned to listen
A little more
To the upbeat bass line
Throbbing beneath
The frantic tenor
Of making ends meet,
Maybe I’d have
A little more
Levity
though I’d speak less.

That’s when I start to laugh,
Catching the joke
That fear is only joy
Hiding behind
Something we will not understand
Until it passes us by.
This is what the trees
Tried to say when
In the early morning
They stood, still and bronzed
In the rosy mist,
But I couldn’t hold
A smile long enough
To muster robust thanks.

Now that they scratch
One another and flail
Before the advance
Of autumn air,
I see plainly what comeliness
The failing light wants to hide
Where the glimmer is weakest.
How carelessly we fall
Back into hope.
So little a splash
Of fuel on a smoldering wick
Sets a lamp flickering, for you
Cannot burn out
What had never been lit.

Image: Clouds and trees in slanted light, my front yard in Tennessee, August 2020.

Rendering

I’ve a new business to start this week,
My wife has a pain in her heel,
My son’s wagon needs a new wheel,
My daughter’s got an aching tooth,
Our horse is limping on one hoof.
With all this and more weighing us down,
We are going to worship the emperor today.

The ox tripped and broke a horn;
A cart full of grapes in the ditch.
The rains didn’t come through this year;
The wheat dried up without much crop.
The rabbits ate half my turnips,
And the foxes aren’t too hungry, so
We are going to worship the emperor today.

They say that Rome is thriving,
That the frontiers are expanding,
That denarii go up daily,
That the colosseum is full,
That the rebels in Judea,
Had their temple duly razed. That’s why
We are going to worship the emperor today

Incense doesn’t cost all that much,
And it smells pretty good most days,
But I’m beginning to wonder
How much good it does anyway.
The emperor’s not too stable,
Or well, the old gods seemed nicer, but
We are going to worship the emperor today.

The fire was a long time back,
And Nero’s died in the meantime.
Old Vespy keeps his fiddle tuned,
So as to dull the people’s cry.
My friend got crucified Tuesday,
But as for me and my house, you see,
We are going to worship the emperor today.

Image courtesy of Classical Numismatic Group, CC BY-SA 3.0

Into the Woods: Seven Islands Birding State Park

With gathering indoors but a happy memory these days, it’s a great time to get out and hike. We’ve done our fair share over the past few months, but it’s been a while since I’ve posted any trip reports. Some of this is because it’s been a family affair, and carrying a 2-year old limits both how far you can walk and how many pictures you can take while doing it. We’ve hit some of our old favorite spots (Huckleberry Knob), some new ones (Conasauga Snorkel Hole), some farther afield (Hawksbill Mountain in Linville Gorge Wilderness), and lots of walks close to home (Tennessee Riverpark, Chickamauga Battlefield, and Enterprise South Nature Park).

A couple of weeks ago, though, I had occasion to be in Knoxville, and the weather coaxed me to spend some time outdoors. I don’t care much for hiking in the lowland South in the summer—too hot, too humid, too many bugs, snakes, and poison ivy. That week, though, a fading tropical storm working its way up the East Coast pulled some drier, cooler air around its west side, making July in East Tennessee a trifle more bearable for a couple of days. When you’ve lived in this part of the world for a few decades, you know better than to let those opportunities slip by—it might be months before another really nice day comes along.

I opted to take advantage of this particular day to check out a spot I’ve seen signs for but never visited—Seven Islands Birding State Park. I’d read that it had access to the French Broad River, so I went initially with the aim of fishing, but found a lot more.

For starters, this place is beautiful. The River defines the space, looping around the whole park, and there is a very nice footbridge connecting the main path to one of the islands. Due to its open, meadowy nature, the views are also impressive. The Great Smoky Mountains rise just a few miles south of the park, and from one of the hilltops, the whole ridge (including Mount LeConte) opens into view. There are also a few ponds and marshes dotting the area.

Beyond that, the park lives up to the “birding” part of its name. There are birds everywhere. In just a few hours, I saw hawks, herons, and ducks, along with a bevy of songbirds like goldfinches, indigo buntings, yellow-breasted chats, several different warblers, and other more common species. I heard, though did not see, a few bobwhite quail, too. This was a treat. It was so common to hear their tell-tale whistle in rural Georgia in my childhood, but populations of these ground-dwelling birds have plummeted in recent decades due to habitat loss. In fact, preservation of prime quail habitat is the park’s key goal. There was plenty of non-bird wildlife, too. I saw dozens of deer, hundreds of rabbits, bullfrogs, bugs, a muskrat, and a field mouse.

I did fish (as is often the case, to no avail—with either flies or spinning lures), but the evening light lured me to spend a couple of hours exploring the trails, most of which are wide-mown paths through a tallgrass prairie ecosystem. This plant life was just as impressive as the animals. In a part of the country that is largely comprised of forests, farms, and urban development, it’s not often we get to see native grasses and field plants have their day. I’ve read that pre-colonial indigenous land management practices made extensive use of fire and other methods to cultivate Southeastern prairies as way to increase herds/flocks of game, but these practices haven’t been preserved, leading to a false ideal of “wilderness” that actually eliminates crucial habitat. This little state park is a testament to the wonders of restoration.

I probably rambled about 5 miles over the course of the afternoon, but barely scratched the surface of available trails. I’ll be back, and you should check it out, too. The park is just 5 minutes off I-40 (at exit 402), but a world away.

Unmapped

“Some are born in their place, some find it, some realize after long searching that the place they left is the one they have been searching for. But whatever their relation to it, it is made a place only by slow accrual, like a coral reef.”
—Wallace Stegner

You were floating by fast when I caught you,
Gave you a place to anchor and watched you
Begin to call your home into being.
All you needed for it you brought with you,
So I left you to it, and before I knew it,
We were cemented together here,
Securely as the roots of the mountains.

I wonder where you came from and
Where you might have gone without me.
I wonder what great ships you could
Have beached somewhere else, though who knows
What our children’s children might see
Come to pass right here, in this place
Where we’ve been set, accreting life.

A little carbon and calcium
Is all it takes to move heaven and earth
Around ourselves and find a niche that works,
Amid vast, acidifying oceans.
But of all the polyps in all the reefs
In all the world, just this spot was prepared
For your unmapped geography of hope.

Image: Crystalline Iceplant, Santa Barbara County, Calif., June 2019.