Monday, 26 of January of 2015

Tag » Ecology

Susan McCampbell Ring – Cove/Mallard

Mallard-Larkin Roadless Area

seewhat2

 
 
 
 
Yesterday these forests were crimson pink
through the smoke of summer fires
(as if the very air were bleeding here);
today i stand soaking wet
looking thru rain-smeared glasses
sweaty from dancing with thunder;

Drumming tumbles with guitar, banjo & oboe
between Grand fir, bear grass
& sweet purpling huckleberries.
The tapping of the rain
comforts me. Reminds me of earlier,
down the hill where they’re cutting

when i wrapped my arms halfway ’round
a doomed grandmother pine at dawn
–and, crying, i prayed for her deliverance.

14 VIII 94

Susan McCampbell Ring
June-July 1998 Earth First!

 
 

Now, the woods are quiet – no chainsaws, no arrests. Cutting has stopped in the two Nez Perce National Forest roadless areas. It stopped when Bruce Bernhardt, a stocky man with a New York accent, became forest supervisor early last year. He announced that six unsold timber sales planned for Cove-Mallard would remain unsold. The forest, he said, has other priorities. “It’s an intact ecosystem and in terms of ecosystem restoration there are so many other places that need to be restored,” he said. Bernhardt made his announcement to halt cutting in Cove-Mallard even before President Clinton unveiled his plan to permanently protect roadless areas in national forests. As an inventoried roadless area, Cove-Mallard’s 77,000 acres are included in 40 million acres up for a fresh look by the public. Although local sawmills facing big income cuts were disappointed, activists were thrilled. –from High Country News


Mary Oliver – Kingfisher

Kingfisher
Kingfisher3
 
 
 
The kingfisher rises out of the black wave
like a blue flower, in his beak
he carries a silver leaf. I think this is
the prettiest world — so long as you don’t mind
a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life
that doesn’t have its splash of happiness?
There are more fish than there are leaves
on a thousand trees, and anyway the kingfisher
wasn’t born to think about it, or anything else.
When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the water
remains water–hunger is the only story
he has ever heard in his life that he could believe.
I don’t say he’s right. Neither
do I say he’s wrong. Religiously he swallows the silver leaf
with its broken red river, and with a rough and easy cry
I couldn’t rouse out of my thoughtful body
if my life depended on it, he swings back
over the bright sea to do the same thing, to do it
(as I long to do something, anything) perfectly.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


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