round about sunset (29)

Henry’s reading bookspines: proceedings

of the California Legislature 1852 to 1948.

many bookmarks inserted in the pages. 

Spines of snakes and skunks.

hawk skulls, fox feet, antlers.

Paine, Nietzsche, and Wilde.

Joyce and Dreiser and Keynes.

Amethyst, obsidian and gold. Gold?

A row of nuggets, in between

the eggs of towhees and tanagers.

Dry thistle heads and the works of

W.E.B. Dubois and the desiccated

feet of snow geese. This Mr. Green

is a man of many parts it seems.

He and Ruthie come back to the kitchen.

What took you so long? I was

beginning to think you got lost.

We did.

What’s so funny? Oh nothing.

Green knew you were going to say that.

We just got all caught up talking.

Oh. Alright. Anything I can help with?

You could bring in some kindling for the stove,

it’s right outside the back door under the little shed.

While he’s outside, the old man says,

You need to tell him. Soon.

I know. I will. It’s just that…. -Tell him.

Soon the fire in the stove is burning hot

and the beans are ready. They spoon them

over thick slices of the cornbread nesting

in white speckled blue enamel bowls.

The two young folks polish off their servings fast.

These are delicious, I didn’t know I was so hungry.

Me too. -Help yourself to more, there’s plenty.

Thanks. Ruthie dishes up another helping

for them both. When they finish, Green gathers

up the plates and spoons and stacks them

in the kitchen sink. I’ll do these later,

lets go out and enjoy the sunset.

The sun, low above the horizon, bathes

the porch in a blaze of late afternoon heat.

Green says, there’s a cooler spot around the side.

Leads the way down a gentle slope to a huge valley oak

with twisting branches the size of lesser trees. One of

the limbs lies on the ground beneath it, a victim of age

or termites or storms or four century’s gravity.

One side has a long section hacked out with an ax

and smoothed with chisels into an undulating bench.

The living tree above shades it from the low sun.

The view from the bench is back up the valley

towards the ridge from which they’d descended.

Sycamores along the dry creek bed, oaks and scrub pines,

buckeyes in their summer nakedness. Green points

to a well worn concave section wide enough for two.

Ruthie and Henry settle into the contours which fit

as if they had been carved especially for them.

Green says, I carved that place for Maria and me

forty years ago. We sat there for many years. It still has

her shape. Looks like it fits the two of you. -Yeah. Just right.

Works better when there’s two. He eases himself into another

cup shaped notch a few feet further along the branch.

They watch the changing light in silence for awhile.

A ground squirrel in the old oak bounces along a branch 

over head, then scrambles headfirst down the trunk

and leaps over to the bench. Bounds over to Green.

He reaches into his pocket and brings out a handful of grain.

The squirrel stuffs his cheeks with the offering then

jumps down and runs off into the tall dry grass.

Ruthie says, How cute! Does he have a name?

Yes. But I don’t know it, I don’t speak squirrel.

He’s putting in his winter supplies out there.

Keeps him fat through the winter.

Have you come up with a plan yet?

I’ve been thinking about it,

but it’s hard to figure out

what’s going on back down

in Bakersfield and Cottonwood.

Gonna have to go there to find out.