Wolves in Yellowstone, and Us

 

Wolves in the Morning

before I can even put the first words on the page,

tears spring into my eyes

just as I begin to recollect

our morning of Yellowstone wolves,

the rightness of it all shakes me at my core,

once again for us, the Lamar Valley served as theater

where interested humans are able to witness

the everyday work and play of a wild wolf pack,

the technology of spotting scopes, binoculars, and telephoto lenses,

plus the coordination of the lupophile network,

allowed us an immediacy of witnessing their world

without imposing our presence 

as unwelcome guests barging into their homes,

though one gray yearling, 

with the visual and psychic acuity of a great hunter,

obviously knew we were there, 

watched us, and kept her distance,

the first wolf we saw, a black,

was returning to the den area

with a stomach full of a recent kill,

most to be shared with the pups,

our guide anticipated her route home

and positioned us to be ready 

to watch the last laps to the den,

when we saw her, our hearts beat faster,

and the joy of discovery suffused us 

into excited smiles and quick words,

almost as if a near-forgotten favorite relative

shows up unexpectedly,

and we are delighted to re-embrace the family bonds,

a mile from us, high on a friendly ridge,

the wolf family centers itself,

pups, excited to be fed,

tumble round siblings and parent,

who share food and camaraderie,

distance, though, blocks some of the details,

like a bad connection on the phone

we don’t quite get all that’s happening,

but we get enough to touch the intimacy of their world,

it all reminds me of being present at a birth,

before you a miracle reveals itself,

and we are reminded that the world is larger and more amazing

than we have any right to experience,

we call it grace,

the sense that the Divine allows us to drink from the spring

that is more holy and real than we can possibly deserve,

the wolves today make me feel we’ve visited royalty,

and in their court, up and down the valley,

we visit the rest of the nobility:

bison, pronghorn antelope, mountain goat mother and kid,

and a sleek black bear as we leave the valley,

today magnificence of place and beloved animals 

pulls tears of joy from my eyes,

and how much deeper and broader and richer

that we share with two younger generations,

folks with whom we are tightly connected,

when the young teenagers joy in the discoveries

and reach to hold and appreciate 

our careful intersections with our wild relatives,

I feel even more the grace of these moments.

by Henry H. Walker

July 28, ‘21

believe in science, and save us

 

Science Over Conspiracies

“Science Is Not A Liberal Conspiracy”

shouts my t-shirt to any who read it,

I choose to display this view

on hikes in Yellowstone

where the openness to revelation

draws people to natural beauty,

science is also of revelation,

of understanding the harmony

through which the universe plays its tunes,

despite the discordance that can pull us away into the self-centered,

that’s when we choose the clanging of self-gratification

over the symphony for the whole,

the universe doesn’t care if we believe in science,

the truth of “2 + 2” is impervious to denial,

such denial can lead us into conspiracy theories

that choose to believe what is demonstrably false,

from vaccine fears to climate change dismissal,

science offers paths forward,

denial is just wrong-headed,

the world deserves better from us,

I feel good that so many we pass on the trails

speak up to “like” my t-shirt,

I pray enough will believe in the truth of science to save us.

by Henry H. Walker

July 28, ‘21

how to get updates on my new posts on my poetry blog

 Our friend, Feedburner, that has forwarded new blog posts on to some of you for years has gone bye-bye.  We have chosen a new app to help us, Follow It (https://follow.it).

Just sign on to Follow It on the blog if you want.  Our son, Ike, tried it, and it worked just fine, giving a notification of a new post about midday, rather than the morning that Feedburner used to do.

Hoping my blog still works for you . . .

Henry

in appreciation of Bob Sweeney, a great man

 Bob Sweeney

nobody really knows the troubles another sees,

the sorrows they wake up with,

the effort they live behind their smiles,

Bob Sweeney was not just a good man,

he was a great man in his touch upon the world,

until this week,

his touch upon his family, the kids who brightly shine,

his partnership with his wife who built with him home and family,

he loved to do, to change the landscape with his vision,

to take care of every need he could see,

every person with whom he bonded,

I feel tragedy in his loss to us,

in his inexplicable leaving,

I feel cheated to still be in a world

without his smile, without his touch,

I wish he could have taken as good care of himself,

as how well he took care of everyone else for years.

by Henry H. Walker

July 15, ‘21

a beautiful soul, and her loss

 

We just lost Becca Calhoun to natural causes at her condo in Chapel Hill.

The family plans a memorial service, probably in early November, '21.

Becky, Rebecca, Becca 

Tragedy:

that inexplicable sundering of event

from what our heart feels is right,

we just lost Becca Calhoun,

as she went through the gate that opens only one way,

when I heard the news

I kept seeing the young child Becky,

as fully alive and engaging

as every attempt by God at perfection,

the promise in that long-haired, smiling girl

haunts me with the promise broken,

no matter how hard she worked to fulfill it,

I particularly remember her answering the calling

to work with kids challenged by language,

I keep seeing the adolescent,

 the high schooler, the college student, 

light with possibilities before her,

heavy with expectations hard to meet,

I remember her joy when she could help another,

when the gifts within her found a way to be shared, to be given,

I keep remembering the choices that turned wrong:

in relationship, in the siren call of what felt right at the time,

all of this tough and challenging,

it all got to be too much,

a tick must have introduced a predatory virus to her system,

for years she fought the predator within,

during that fight she was gifted with a mother

who was always there for her,

there for her in a laissez-faire world

where health care is more possibility than a right,

particularly when what is true is not obvious,

Becca’s mother has been such a devoted champion of her 

as to be almost mythic,

I feel tragedy keenly when thinking of her,

as a father, I avoid thinking of her father,

who loved her unconditionally and did everything he could for her,

who worked as hard as he could to be there for her,

and is now also denied more time with his glorious daughter,

finally, the world quit overwhelming her,

and the extraordinary self within her reopened to who she was,

a beautiful expression of what the world and she needed:

a loving daughter, a good sister, a good person, a lover of her dogs,

just then, when the way forward was finally re-opened,

tragedy struck, and we are left in a world without Becca:

our hearts reeling from hope denied, from possibility lost,

from any more time with the beautiful soul God gifted us with, 

Becca.

by Henry H. Walker
July 9, ‘21

the way opens, and so do we

 the elders way

a stream makes a path down a mountain,

and we call it a valley,

a valley which carves its way around boulders and over bedrock,

showing us that a way can open

for our feet and thus for our soul,

when the mountains steepens on one side,

the trail crosses to the other,

near the stream at times,

climbing high above it at other times,

all to make the footsteps more a hike than a climb,

after the Ice retreated some 10,000 years ago,

the first peoples around here must have needed 

a way to get over the mountains,

so they took what rock and water made together

and created a path to follow the stream’s hollowing chisel,

plant and bush and tree climbed the mountain, too,

in their own patient way,

their roots hold the hardwon soil

and help the trail hold to the way,

for centuries, for millennia, humans have found their way

up and down the mountain along this path,

and we glory in the glory that must have enveloped them,

and still envelopes us,

our goal today a high waterfall fanning into a clear cold pool,

the trail drawn here to be as close to it as possible,

for those first sojourners up this mountain

must have felt the power of this particular spot,

the trail earlier pulled away from other gorgeous views

as water cascaded invitingly down bedrock,

here, though, the power of place demanded to be easily seen,

we scramble down the short slope to the water

and immerse ourselves in its shocking embrace,

not much more than a mile from the ridge line,

this waterfall and pool the highest above the sea we know of around here,

we ready ourselves to go back down the hollowed valley to our car,

my wife remembers Harvey Broome, 

who wrote that he never likes to leave the top of a mountain,

she laments: “I never like to leave such a waterfall!”

how fitting that 10,000 years ago, or so,

others humans likely stood here and thought the same.

by Henry H. Walker

July 13, ‘21