Rebecca Bailey
Rebecca Bailey is a native of eastern Kentucky. A former writing professor at MoreheadState University, for the last eight years she has been a ranger with the National Park Service. Currently she works at Canyonlands National Park in southeast Utah.
She has published six books, most recently the poetry collection Meditation Upon the Invisible Ceremony of the Breath (Finishing Line Press, Georgetown, KY), and poems, short stories, and articles in a variety of publications. She has work forthcoming from Sage Womanmagazine and the National Park Service. She is married to artist Gordon Talley, of Grangeville, Idaho. Her main focus in writing is exploring the theme of women's connections to the Earth. |
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A RANGER’S VALEDICTORY
This morning, nearing mid-November,
I can see the approach of winter.
Gray clouds, like dirty quilt batting,
cover the pristine turquoise sky.
The brilliant cornmeal yellow rabbitbrush
has faded, the sumac leaves copper.
The evergreen Mormon tea claims the eye
in the desert landscape, verdant
against the haze of sage, winterfat, bare rock.
Their harvest completed, pinyon jays are silent.
I miss their monkeylike chatter,
their great steel-blue swoops.
The lizards, too, even on sunny days
are absent, having taken themselves
to whatever sanctuary that keeps them alive
during the cold season, as have gopher snakes,
rattlesnakes, the beautiful black widows.
There are no bear tracks in Salt Creek.
I haven’t seen a scorpion
in my house in a month.
The quiet stillness draws attention
to itself. In yesterday’s late autumn warmth,
I walked four miles. No lizards,
a random grasshopper rough as a husk,
no blooms, no birds. No visitors.
I, too, contemplate my departure.
Each thing used is something I don’t have
to move. I drank the last
of the orange juice this morning.
The next use of sunblock will empty the bottle.
I have already cooked
all my fresh and frozen vegetables.
I find myself trying to use up pens,
read books that I can leave with someone else.
I put off cleaning and loading the car
until the last minute, though most everything
is packed. I have three pickle spears,
one for each day until I leave.
I imagine the land sighing in relief
as we vanish, relieved of the unimaginable
weight of hot, guttural cars and RVs,
bicycles, rock-climbing equipment, boats,
the millions of feet trekking
the sixty miles of trails here
in my beautiful canyon country park.
Probably it is glad to see me go as well.
Ravens, rabbits, coyotes will eke out
a winter existence more severe
than in summer’s shimmering heat.
I’d like to stay the winter, too,
meditating, eating soup beans, listening
to an even more vast and profound silence,
My winter pelt is grown.
But my uniforms are packed.
Today I will wash the windows,
clean out the medicine cabinet,
eat my pickle spear, take my daily
walk to Cave Spring, sit on the red rocks
and just let myself love this place,
then leave it, for its own sake,
to fall into winter somnolence, and heal.
I can see the approach of winter.
Gray clouds, like dirty quilt batting,
cover the pristine turquoise sky.
The brilliant cornmeal yellow rabbitbrush
has faded, the sumac leaves copper.
The evergreen Mormon tea claims the eye
in the desert landscape, verdant
against the haze of sage, winterfat, bare rock.
Their harvest completed, pinyon jays are silent.
I miss their monkeylike chatter,
their great steel-blue swoops.
The lizards, too, even on sunny days
are absent, having taken themselves
to whatever sanctuary that keeps them alive
during the cold season, as have gopher snakes,
rattlesnakes, the beautiful black widows.
There are no bear tracks in Salt Creek.
I haven’t seen a scorpion
in my house in a month.
The quiet stillness draws attention
to itself. In yesterday’s late autumn warmth,
I walked four miles. No lizards,
a random grasshopper rough as a husk,
no blooms, no birds. No visitors.
I, too, contemplate my departure.
Each thing used is something I don’t have
to move. I drank the last
of the orange juice this morning.
The next use of sunblock will empty the bottle.
I have already cooked
all my fresh and frozen vegetables.
I find myself trying to use up pens,
read books that I can leave with someone else.
I put off cleaning and loading the car
until the last minute, though most everything
is packed. I have three pickle spears,
one for each day until I leave.
I imagine the land sighing in relief
as we vanish, relieved of the unimaginable
weight of hot, guttural cars and RVs,
bicycles, rock-climbing equipment, boats,
the millions of feet trekking
the sixty miles of trails here
in my beautiful canyon country park.
Probably it is glad to see me go as well.
Ravens, rabbits, coyotes will eke out
a winter existence more severe
than in summer’s shimmering heat.
I’d like to stay the winter, too,
meditating, eating soup beans, listening
to an even more vast and profound silence,
My winter pelt is grown.
But my uniforms are packed.
Today I will wash the windows,
clean out the medicine cabinet,
eat my pickle spear, take my daily
walk to Cave Spring, sit on the red rocks
and just let myself love this place,
then leave it, for its own sake,
to fall into winter somnolence, and heal.
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COYOTE ASANA
My asana for the day is the Coyote Pose.
I will keep low to the ground and move
invisible to most eyes. I will camouflage.
I will lope. I will eat whatever nature
provides me. I will play at every opportunity.
I will indulge my curiosity. I will sing
without inhibition all night long.
This is not Up Dog or Down Dog, but Wild Dog.
Coyote Asana is different every day,
adaptable, clever, hard to imprison.
Embrace the Coyote Pose for infinite flexibility.
I will keep low to the ground and move
invisible to most eyes. I will camouflage.
I will lope. I will eat whatever nature
provides me. I will play at every opportunity.
I will indulge my curiosity. I will sing
without inhibition all night long.
This is not Up Dog or Down Dog, but Wild Dog.
Coyote Asana is different every day,
adaptable, clever, hard to imprison.
Embrace the Coyote Pose for infinite flexibility.
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THE JOURNEY
I like encountering the unexpected:
a flower blooming out of season,
darkling clouds that turn out
to be dust rather than rain,
a lizard who simply stares back.
I like the unexpected in me, too,
when I am a surprise to myself:
being slung around on a 4WD road,
a sudden taste of endamame,
hankering to nest rather than wander.
What journeys our soul-selves are on,
so profound and so full of wonder,
so close that we can’t even see
that we are traveling all the time.
a flower blooming out of season,
darkling clouds that turn out
to be dust rather than rain,
a lizard who simply stares back.
I like the unexpected in me, too,
when I am a surprise to myself:
being slung around on a 4WD road,
a sudden taste of endamame,
hankering to nest rather than wander.
What journeys our soul-selves are on,
so profound and so full of wonder,
so close that we can’t even see
that we are traveling all the time.
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REMEDY
This morning I heard one coyote
sing, one note, repeated twice.
The first, to get my attention.
The second was the message.
It said Despite your headache,
music comes from the wild.
Despite your feeling that you will die
of civilization, I still howl.
Despite your species’ savagery,
coyote puppies are still born.
Despite your weariness,
the wildness in you is strong.
Greedy, I listened for more.
No human note has such power to heal.
sing, one note, repeated twice.
The first, to get my attention.
The second was the message.
It said Despite your headache,
music comes from the wild.
Despite your feeling that you will die
of civilization, I still howl.
Despite your species’ savagery,
coyote puppies are still born.
Despite your weariness,
the wildness in you is strong.
Greedy, I listened for more.
No human note has such power to heal.