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 |  Look around. Let Nature nurture your Soul. I record images I sense and share them here. |
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NURTURE your NATURE  Nature can nurture our writing, can nurture our soul. What is the language of Nature? And how do we learn it? We look at the natural wonders around us and do not see them, hear, taste nor smell them. They do not touch us anymore than we dare touch them. And then we wonder why we feel so dead. To breathe in and live like a child again opens the Land of Wonderment. It's still there after all these years.   |
| Water dripping onto the muddy frozen-gravel path. in this semi-desert climate, I should be thankful for mud. Yellow and red rose petals strewn about. reminding me that a homeless man was shot and killed hereabouts. A man riding his bicycle in his shirt ... sleeveless. ... and gleeful as he spoke! Young guy with a fishing pole, green fly. seemingly lost and yet he wasn't the only fisherman out. Sleds with children at a distance. slopes of the park for the kids in training for the slopes of the mountains. The nuzzle and bark of assorted dogs. they comes in all sizes and colors and dispositions, most greet me. Fenced off osprey nest at the top of a pole. the baseball team's called the Ospreys and this pole is beyond center field; wonder how many balls they've caught. Beige reflection on the rapids. took a photo of taco-something giving color to the river flowing by. Yellow mini-bottle of chardonnay. gold for my collection of colored glass on the sill back home. Swirl of ice in an eddy. mesmerizing motion; I don't stop for long. Sun glinting off black plastic like metal. like the sheen of a new car or rail along the river bank. New plank bridge across the dry drainage ditch. I crossed over the frozen hay bales. 2009, January 30th, from the Orange Street underpass to the California suspension bridge along the south side river walk, Missoula, Montana. 103 |
| Wet dab to the cheeks, mountains lost in the mist, a thick pale grey. Flag pole stiff from winds blowing from the east. Smoosh of the shoes. Gold on red poinsettia ribbon wrapped round a pole at the circle of Hazel and fourth, festooned like a candycane. A low note from windchimes on a porch behind a window hung from the porch with a display of translucent rock slices. Bud of the shrub shrunk into itself; a yellow fireplug with a green hat. Car engines, car tires on Orange Street. New tracks left through fresh snow. Piles of snirt showing crags through the white. The shades of white, even shadows soft and light. On the way back: small tracks of a squirrel; footprints fading under the flakes. Bags handles pressing gloves into flesh. A challenge of a black and white dog. Setting bags down to write, the rustle of plastic. The steps to the Baptist church not cleaned off. A pond cycling water, the rush of dark water. Small dogs warning me off. What smell? As I try, I feel the cold of my nose. What touch? I stick out my tongue. No taste, just a jab of cold wetness. What touches me? A sense I walked through this snow as a child. A sense of how quickly yesterday is erased. 2009, January 1st. From Myrtle to Orange along 4th street and 5th Street coming back, Missoula, Montana. 93 |
| Puddles, slush, the thickness of slush, like ... mucous. Abandoned hot water heater, roof drain spouting a cadence of water, icicles hanging 3 feet where in the shadow of the Babbs, the sun won't reach. Old door leaning at the back of the Babbs; the ringer not working. A rivulet running past the defunct Indian restaurant. Black bags overflowing the dumpster by the brewery. Orange peels between the ruts of slushy ice where the bare pavement glistens back; the stones in the asphalt: greywacke, red and rust. A slip and water enters the shoes. Green tape around a power pole (begging not be hit). A thin rainbow of gasoline or oil. A shard of fallen ice, slick to the touch. No birdsong. No sounds except occasional traffic and the ever present water. The why by the tattoo parlor where this alley bends. One ending where the other begins. The alley west of Higgins between 3rd and Brooks. 2008, December 28th, Missoula Montana. |
| ... as narrated by my computer: Put on your scarf and black jacket, try to make the hood close with the velcro that won't stick. Try again, till it is time to take off the scarf and try yet again. Put the scarf on the outside this time. With a maroon band across your forehead, a maroon scarf across your nose and mouth, venture forth until the lenses of your glasses fog up. But don't worry. You know the way home. Take a right off of Broadway, head south to the bridge. Slip only once as the pavement's not bare. Look over and under the glasses to avoid broken glass from a bottle in front of the cafe. Give greetings to the man who comes out to clean up the mess. Don't ask if it's wine. In the cold air, one can't smell, with fogged glasses one can't tell. Be glad you've avoided the trickle of wet that will soon freeze to black ice. Cross Main Street in a fog, aware of the sign that signals that it's safe to enter the crosswalk. Say a prayer that the drivers you can't see can see you and will stop. Stop at the theater, wipe the fog from the lenses. Lower the scarf to limit the fog. Get ready to cross over water. Know the railing may be cold but it's still there and the gloves on your hands are warm enough to grasp it. Notice how the walkway is mottled with clumps of snow, now dirty, not too icy. The pavement's half bare. You have traction and feel confident until a car passing by honks a horn. Forget you are passing over water half frozen, that to fall in it will freeze you, that to survive the fall means quick death in chill air. Forget the vertigo and the damaged nerves that jump at loud noises. Swear, say a curse; soft, so no one will hear. There is no one about that will hear. Hold the rail when two men approach from the other direction. Be glad when the other side looms through the fog. Check twice when crossing on 3rd. Stopping on right turns is an option it seems. Cross the street where even through fog you can see you are home. Slip again by the front doors and be glad you don't fall. Enter and stomp up the stairs. Remove glasses so you can see, remove scarf so you can breathe, get the key and come in. Throw the band off your head, toss the coat on the bed. Make a run to go pee. Then run back to me to turn me on. Quick, go find your blog. Do an entry to capture the date. Note the time and the temp. -5 degrees. Don't believe it's that warm. December 15, 2008: West Broadway from Zootown Brew down Higgins to west 3rd. Missoula, Montana 88 |
| Next to Office City the concrete alleyway sits straight as an arrow pointing south. Admire the orange brick, red brick, pink or dark brick. There's nothing much else to look at. Except for two pieces of art painted on a walled in window frame, the graffiti scrawled over it. Such disrespect, I note. Yes, there are wires that once went somewhere, going nowhere on this tranquil day. A slice of sunlight reaches out, bright sliver between brick canyon walls. This way is narrow. By the back door of Liquid Planet's coffeeshop one sees but does not hear an air compressor. It too just sits about. Behind the steel and concrete barrier, two gas meters, one dial chasing itself, the only movement at this vacant hour. Above: a disjoined downspout, dry as a bone, and a counterweight to a metal staircase looming. This alleyway ends at another where the parking garage rests and dumpsters overflowing show that this one's not abandoned. Look back to the north. The way lies narrow, a concrete arrow that few seldom notice. October 28th, Broadway just west of Higgins, Missoula, Montana |
| With each fall of leaf the view of winter becomes clearer. Memories of summers-to-come wait till after spring. I thought I saw a fox No wafts of wind nor wing, nary a bird in sight; is that all that's missing? my thoughts take flight above this flowing water, where a brown slink of fur blends into leaves and logs abandoned by trees where the river mirrors gleams of gold floating past worn rock and sand and the trout fly-fisher-man. No chirps. No breeze. In the calm of autumn, October falls one leaf by leaf, to be carried off to the sea. © 2008 Kåre Enga [165.302] 2008-10-17 9 carved pumpkins on Alex's front porch. His neighbor talking on a cell-phone, the other peeling a banana. Empty swings. I sit on one so it won't feel lonely. The slide and steps to a pole beckon. I ponder, then move on. A glade of trees: pine, maple, fir, a plaque on a rocky mountain juniper. I circle around 3 cedars then leave by the entrance. where the sign proclaims: ceded 1942. Madison Bridge to Kiwanis Park, October 17, 2008, Missoula, Montana (includes the part made into a poem later) |
| Cardboard overflowing the dumpster. Men sitting at the picnic tables at Bridge Pizza. An old cedar blocking the path. Brown leaves strewn on lawns and sidewalks. Maple turning yellow. Dark-red crabapples among the thinning leaves of gold against a sky clear blue. Smoke, to the north, at a distance, curls. Bricks and stones mark four homes in a row. The walk descends toward the river. Bees on yellow brush (or broom). small patch of Pierce Prairie. Wood railed bridge over the water of the canal (or flume). Scant clouds, scaled like mackerel sky. A converted warehouse. End of the road. A circle and a sign: John H Toole Park. East Fourth Street, 0ctober 17, 2008, Missoula Montana. |
| One crosses the worn wood ties of this bridge over a trickle of water to enter Clark Fork Natural Park, it's sign engraved, yellow in brown. 13 leaflets turn yellow to orange to red; a red leaflet caught in the long needled pine. A scrape of a sound as a maple leaf wends its way to the ground; a scrape of gravel as a walker passes. The gooseberry bush bears naught but mottled leaves; a branch sways to the leap of a squirrel; black wings swirl above in silence; a jet soars by, not so quiet. Two terriers meet, one white, one black; a squirrel scampers up a tree, now wanders around, mindful of me. Maroon leaves of the virginia creeper; the flume so calm leaves barely move. Faint roar of the river; The tower of the old Milwaukee Road depot and the end of this path. Autumn along the Clark Fork, Clark Fork Natural Park, 19 October, 2008, Missoula, Montana |
| The stage: warm brown wood with a pergola above, khaki drapes, 'iron' scroll-work, the sharpened Shakespeare tongue. Soft green grass of the university Oval caresses my toes, my ass. The green-brown 'hill' looms behind the bell-tower: 6:28, two minutes to a chime. Alas, the black and white figures on the hill crawl along the zig-zag paths like goats. High wisps against a blue, red-costumed actors, the crew? They do it all themselves. Soft lawn and hard concrete, lying in the park, listening to Shakespeare's repartees re virginity. I leave before the dark. The theatrical production from MSU, Montana Shakepeare in the Parks, was in town today. They've toured all of Montana, even done shows in North Dakota, Idaho and Wyoming this summer. Do it every year I guess. This year: All's Well That Ends Well and tomorrow, Macbeth. There was a good crowd but it got chilly and I had problems following the play. Not used to theatre and not familiar with this particular play. Now Ibsen ...  |
| White on Lolo, on the Bitterroots to the south, the Missions to the north. The river runs higher. Blue skies clear after a rain. The pain of thirst has passed. On Sentinel, where the burn has traded beige with black, removed the plaque: green, green, bright new green. 2008-September-02, Missoula, Montana We got rain in the valley, snow on Mount Lolo. Chilly temps for two days, now sunny and mild. 54 |
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