Marking One's Territory

Did errands early this morning. I often take copies of my latest poem to
give away. This morning's was about the questions one might ask of winter
oak leaves . . . the ones that remain so firmly attached to tree branches.
The bank teller received it graciously and said "I will read it during my
lunch break." The greeter at the bank entrance knows me and said "thanks
much." The pharmacy staff greeted me with "do you have a poem for us?"
A poem's life is as milkweed seed-fluff cast to the wind.

Once, while traveling in the southwest's wilderness, I happened upon an
out-of-the-way place. I knew that Edward Abbey, the renegade environ-
mentalist, once frequented these parts. I inquired, and a ranger pointed me
to the far end of the gravel parking area and said "for a while, Abbey
parked his trailer over there. We didn't see much of him though." Walking
to the outskirts of the maintenance lot (when no one was looking) I pissed
into the desert bushes to honor Abbey's life.

In winter, I routinely kick the outside of my car's wheel-wells. Large glops
of snirtalt (a concoction of snow, dirt, and salt) dislodge and crumble to
the ground. On any given day, should someone run a diagnostic on the
snirtalts I have left . . . it would give a graphic account of everywhere I had
the occasion to visit. I wonder if snirtalts are as individually diagnostic as
fingerprints? For sure, I stop to kick the wheel-wells just before entering
the garage.

Whenever I find myself in a remote wilderness landscape, I take time to
think about life - and, eventually, arrange a few small stones in a stack
where no one will find them. I like leaving a cairn for indigenous creatures
who know where they are and really don't need them. Seems important
to do that . . . somehow.

                        
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