Finley

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howard bruner

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Oct 7, 2015, 5:59:51 PM10/7/15
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The autumn sun lays in bright patches across the slow burn of senescence.  I am walking the strange edges that predominate in the Willamette Valley – where sterilized grass fields met the wandering chaos of tree and shrub.  For an hour or two the late afternoon hits an echo of the heat and brilliance of summer. Washed by sadness for the loss of such a bright time of the year, I stop and let the night-cooled breeze refresh me. Near a low catchment the damp mud has kept the plants green and lush. Dragonflies scatter the sun into amber shards. The ash and haw form coco puff lines that fade into the haze. Occasional dark old oaks curl and sweep like devastating columns of smoke.

 

But the smoke is gone and the black crunch is the new ground cover. Massive basalt boulders are now a color-coordinated component of the décor at the base of Pigeon Butte. A piece of the rock suddenly jerks and rises. The ebony dragon. The race of black lizard that is less obvious by mimicking the base color of its habitat. One day I hope to see the apex predator of this small piece of hard habitat.  Will the rattler be melanistic too? 

 

I am covered by an electric azure roof; I am walking across the bare and the full; I am in a season that holds the world together with the sadness and joy that enhance each living day.  



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