This is the kind of weather I really enjoy; if that makes me an autumnal
feller, well I blame my parents, who decided on an October birth. Spring for
frolicking, Autumn for the reality of things. The reds and yellows today, the
shadows on the road, clumped like cows in a field, the joy of a dog chasing a
frisbee across wet grass, it was all intense, as if someone intervened with a
photo editing program to up reality’s contrast. Hamish was unusually happy.
He took two dumps, neither in the ivy, which is the discipline we’ve been
working on. “In the ivy! In the ivy,” I say. He doesn’t like me cleaning up
after him. He’d rather make his mark in the world. I clean up after him
nevertheless, with bags brought for the purpose. But not deep in the ivy.
It’s a good thing we’ve come out of the cold snap because the chickens have
been losing feathers everywhere. In the past this change has been accompanied
by changes in the pecking order, but not this time. Possibly with age comes
wisdom, even among poultry? I made a suggestion to Mimo midweek, “Bernie
Sanders cancelled public appearances for a while, you might too.”
“Not looking electable?”
“I realize we haven’t provided mirrors for you but the others must have said
something.”
Mimo, “They haven’t been shy about expressing opinions. Cruel beasts, birds.”
“So I’ve noticed. That’ll be the dinosaur influence. Do you sometimes feel
that, having ancestors all that way back, you feel superior to humans? I mean
we’ve been on the planet but a moment compared to your innings?”
Mimo, “The thought has flitted through from time to time.”
“Like a swift?”
Mimo, “More of a finch-like thought. Lots of wing action.”
“Would you like to hear a poem I’ve been working on?”
Pecorino emerged from beneath the Himalayan bush. “I think the squirrels have
stolen all the berries again.”
It turned out Appenzeller was in there too. “Done with the grapes, no doubt.
Moved onto our berries. Why are there no grapes within reach?”
“You could fly up. The merlot are only a few feet above the ground.”
Appenzeller, “Too full to fly.”
“Well then,” I said, “How about a poem?”
They all moved away from me, along the bench.
Here’s what I would have recited.
when i feel i don’t see the point of me
i pull out a painting i did and ask to be surprised or disappointed
i hang it on the hook above the fireplace to give it light
and time to defend itself
once in a whileone turns out to be uppity
as full of itself as a chicken
damn it says
look here in the black shadow
beneath the wall
there’s an echo of that high cat in the clouds
and the water pouring from the right hand side distorts any sense you ever had
that the ground beneath your feet is worth trust
which means that when you look again at the ghostly shape on the left
and the landscape
you may wonder what the where is
and why
and whatnot
then you or i see the shape in black as a kind of flat fish
a halibut maybe
and it may be
that said fish
resents the cat’s divine view
but it keeps that thought
to itself
very quiet beings
fish
we had crazy paving in our gardens
front and back
growing up
lots of crazy paving
but in this painting
the paving stones are flat
dalles the french call them
out behind the garden wall of nature undulates
and here flat stones seem to have caught the tune
jazzing with my mother’s ghost
unbecalmed
the dividing line between the worlds is a washing line
undecorated
hanging bare some time after world war two
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
