WITNESS TREE, a lone Western Larch in April mountain meadow [ click photo for next . . . ]
I call this place "Witness Tree" because it is
a place to which I frequently return. It is, especially
in the colder, snowbound, winter months, a kind of safe
haven or refuge, free of strong winds and avalanche danger.
The solitary Larch here always seems to be asking me a
question. There is much more drama unfolding in our planet's
troubled biosphere than the disaster of rising temperatures
and sea levels. If you were a tree, you would be more
concerned about the health and well-being of the forest.
Forest in the once great and magnificent American Northwest
are in steep decline. There are many reasons for this.
Primary, however, is the strident legacy few wish to face
head on of tying up an entire watershed with the devilish
contradictions of force and control we call dams. From the
tree's point of view, things are simple. One by one, in a
measured way, as the tree itself grows slowly out into the
surrounding space, they must be taken down. Only in this way,
will the salmon, and the whole web of life they have historically
sustained, return. In English and other Germanic languages
I know, there's a related family of words—-trust, betroth,
truth—-that come to us from an ancient Indo-European root,
deru, which means "wood," especially the hard and durable
wood of an oak. Clearly, we have betrayed the trust of trees.
I take this trust of trees very seriously. I think we
need to get it back.
On the road in the Northwest of America.
The most insidious of all degrations
is the loss of something
vitally important
for which we do not yet
have a name.
WOODEN FLUTES—a long-line sonnetWe can argue about which came first: the simple pipe of
Wood, with its straight column of moving air, or the pipe's
Length, and the inner sound heard by the human ear,
A sustained singing tone that angels are said to enjoy?Pondering parts of bone flutes found in deep mountain caves,
We argue about how they were first tuned, about
How, and by whom, and in what phases of the Moon
They were played. But such controversy doesn't last.What does last—and this is fact—is the beauty of flowing
Harmonic sound, like a stream, like the leaves of Aspen,
Like the calls of Northern Loons echoing from lake to lake.What is certain is that the spirit is carried someplace very
Far away on the wooden flute's sound. At his death, Plato,
Having banished flutes once, wanted nothing but their song.
| download WOODEN FLUTES [ 4.2 Mb ]
recorded in the Eagle Cap Wilderness w
a solo Varied Thrush in background |FIREWEED POEMS please preview
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All Photographs & texts by Cliff Crego © 1999 -2012 picture-poems.com
(created: XI.21.2010)
