When the winter moon shines bold I prowl – my favorite time to ski ridgelines high upon blue-black canvas the best time to meet the hunters – eastern coyotes owls bobcats – who launch from dens nests lairs to stalk prey. If the moon is full the sky empty and snow crisp the plateau glows hazy like a cloudy summer day soft and bright even when Luna is not close to whole so intense is the reflection. More
You can’t find me here.
Stand on a nearby ridge view this whole swampforest and you will not find me.
Swamp lies on a wooded plateau where I perch at night on the cusp of it all and know that we swamp dwellers are the nearest relatives to stars. Stardust ourselves at the very ends of earth.
Pre-native pre-historic utterly ancient a fossil re-animated starlight from beyond the beginning of time I am the thinking animal of the future past and present always – Homo Sapiens – devolving aswamp.
Ganoga – indigenous word.
The word is Seneca.
Translation: water on the mountain
I dwell high on plateau remote even from the old ones’ vanquished villages vanished on ground unsettled by any human ever – Allegheny plateau.
Allegheny from the Allegwi ancient predecessors. Oldest of the old in this spot of earth Allegwi. I am not of the Allegwi by direct blood descent though we may all transplant – across space and time given soil water light warmth – not only weeds a pejorative term pertaining to many plants of great dignity decency utility. To think otherwise is to not understand the vibrancy of all the mutability of being.
On a log a rock I ponder with wind water elder trees and the simple plants most of all leathery green ones listening to their various musings vernal philosophies frondlike full.
Few humans ever venture into this abandon quite crabby no river no massive lake no large creek simply miles of broken swampforest swamp and forest stream-cut valleys ridges running high an ocean of leaves in the green season uninviting all-embracing.
I sing the song of swampforest teeming with creatures fermenting and frothing in utter calm.
Even the denizens of the wild do not always sense my presence. I am fond of surprising them drifting silent in canoe or sitting motionless on fern bank sunning my blood.
Once a deer sniffed my cap to see if I was of the living. I never ached nor loved so hard as when it flung itself away poor thing.
Bliss you know to be taken by the surprise of scraping tongue of deer in your ear.
I envy and adore swamp fish how they simply outlast ice and cold then laze around in summer water tepid murk.
Little Darter I call it the bird that lit on my knee hopped to the other then took off for a perch unknown. As if I were a stump bank-stuck solely for the pleasure of Little Darter.
Stand on a nearby ridge view this whole swampforest and you cannot find me.
The island-like thicket I inhabit sits dense on peninsula in swamp.
During frequent floods the bulging pie-shaped house my yurt goes turtle takes a swim nearly goes island – circular with slanting-out walls cozy as a cabin this rough-plank hut. With front and back stoops submerged there is no way out short of climbing in canoe and chopping through barrier limbs of thicket through hemlocks birches vines bushes ferns – swamp ferns bent under their own weight while stretching six feet high in living arc. These are the best days – when wilderness is water raw and swollen rising for your throat.
In yurt I live underground as well as above water with sod on the roof as camouflage against whomever – marijuana spy planes random military helicopters recreational fliers depleting ozone.
Survival by camouflage. Weeds reeds grasses around skylight with a one-way tint to kill glare yet absorb all the sun has to offer each day – thus my humble elegant hut squats invisible to sky.