SOUND SIGNAL

It’s a hike, not a walk,
To the Dungeness Lighthouse.
The beginning is crowded with families
Tagging waves, spading sand.
Further on lovers sit smiling
On huge hunks of drift wood.
After a mile or so
Only explorers persist.

During estival days haze hangs
In the air from yesterday’s rain.
If sun glistens on water
The light blink seems part of the sea.
Big bellied freighters float by
With barely a glance.

In winter cold grows
On the coast of Siberia.
The north wind forces the icy air
Down through Alaska.
There it lashes and slashes
Its way to the Washington shore.

The black ocean flexes
And bulges and breaks.
Roaring surf heaves floating trees
High on the beach.
Salt water mixes with fresh
In freezing sleet.
Ice plasters sea grasses
Down to the sand.

No glimmer of star
Can break through the overcast sky.
Still, without fail,
Far out on the spit
Flashes the lantern
Again and again.

Written after hiking the 11 mile round trip to the Dungeness Lighthouse a few summers ago. Photos are also mine.

ZOOM, ZOOM, ZOOM!

The bad economy lowers prices on merchandise. I have been watching the numbers on a zoom lens and finally took the plunge.

Shooting the moon from my front porch.

Recent trip to the ocean. Bad weather. Good surfing photo ops.

Mom, Dad and kids. Trumpeter swan at Harriman State Park

PRIDE AND POULTRY

Along with our flock of hens we had a big red rooster. He was not like our ill-tempered Banty rooster who, despite his small stature, would puff up and attack at the least provocation. Big Red was a lover not a fighter. Except for one occasion when a yellow rooster wandered over from a near-by farm. There was a battle and feathers flew until the intruder was beaten and bloody and eager to return to his own flock.

My brother and I occasionally captured our rooster to borrow a few feathers for our Indian games. We would tape the feathers to willow sticks for arrows, and arrange them in the scarves we tied around our heads. We tried to be careful with the rooster since we knew we would be in big trouble if he was ever injured.

However, one time we decided we needed more than just a few feathers from his wings. We wanted enough to make a chieftain’s head-dress. So we helped ourselves to the fine black tail feathers…all of them. The poor rooster was mortified at his loss of splendor. When we released him, he hurried away before the hens could see his shame. Later we looked for him and found him clear across the pasture and up on the hill. He had walked through deep grass and crossed a ditch or two to get there.

We confessed what we had done to our mother. Fortunately, she had a good sense of humor and was more amused by the rooster’s self exile than she was angry with us for the making of our head gear. We checked on the bird off and on during the day and were relieved when he finally came back to the barn that evening. Over time the glorious tail feathers grew back. We learned that even our rooster had a sense of pride.