The river occupies a between space moving calmly along its blue-green channel. An occasional sand bar forms in the lazy current. This Rio Grande divides two lands, two tongues, two ways of seeing and believing. Its meandering liquid line separates the sandy far bank from the stout grasses of the near bank. Traces of past lives trail barren imprints on the far side, while on the near side the turf grasps a millennia of soil in a rooted grip that shelters a riot of present life. Between these worlds lies the secrets of the universe. The living, the dead, and the watery sustenance of the Rio Grande follow a winding course to distant seas. ♨
It seems fitting on Labor Day to celebrate the wisdom, commitment, and courage of Mother Jones where she chose to be buried beside immigrant mine workers killed in the struggle for labor rights.
The end of September was a quiet time in Yellowstone National Park, and beautiful beyond words. Warm days, cold nights, golden aspen mixed among the dark ridges of pine.
A black-billed magpie crosses the barbed boundaries of a wire fence to defend its winged playfulness in a big sky landscape. Perched upon a wooden post, it scouts its next move. More elegant than its cousin crow, the black-and-white formalwear of the magpie obscures its irreverent posturing above the sagebrush plain. ♨
Mountain man Joe Meek’s first summer of fur trapping in 1829, which put him among the earliest of non-indigenous people to enter Yellowstone.
The Beatles in Walnut Ridge, Arkansas: murals, a yellow submarine, and an Abbey Road sculpture commemorate the tiny town’s surprise visit in 1964 from the immortal band.
The full moon sets into a penumbral eclipse, sinking into the tree-lined ridge with spidery fingers of arboreal silhouettes etched across the lunar surface. Meanwhile, early commuters in the valley below sip steaming coffee and steer into another day of meetings, dealings, opportunities and confrontations, oblivious to the celestial spectacle along the ridgetop. ♨