Journal Restoration

"We are so accustomed to these essentials – to the rain, the wind, the soil, the sea, the sunrise, the trees, the sustenance – that we may not include them in the categories of the good things, and we endeavor to satisfy ourselves with many small and trivial and exotic gratifications..." – Liberty Hyde Bailey, from The Holy Earth




Now, we had visited Devil's Lake more frequently, the Baraboo valley much closer to us than it had been in previous years, and began to see it as quite exotic in its quartzite made from a billion years of compact sand, really a kind of ancient ancient formation that was different than much of the younger rock that made up the bluffs in the rest of the region. It was a grand cup, as seen from the top, along the ridge lines, a mystery of how the lake got there, where it was going...

Rise up through
the purple quartzite, steps
laid out for you,
hands, fingers down on the shiny bright layered sides
creases for footing
and take a seat
on tilted tops, you become the crow
ruffled feathers
from wind swept up
through junipers
basswood, hickories, thank yous.

                           how would we sing
                           our silent song this
                           pre cambrian world?
                           how would we praise
                           by silent signals
                           these terminal moraines?

Over Devil's Doorway
hands this time
on bark shredded limbs
gnarled birch prongs
from out of ridge line creases
the crow, old friend, of our own,
sits as ornament
at the top of the very last
branch
and wobbles as a lookout

                            how would we sing
                            our silent song this
                            pre cambrian world?
                            how would we praise
                            by silent signals
                            these terminal moraines?

We follow deer trails
hands this time
on the fallen pines furry by lichen
which all lead
to false ends and for this moment
there is no other
on this earth who knows
where we are
but the squirrel and three
finches that flutter
and little pieces
of us will leave along with them
                              thank yous