Micro Review: Sure Signs

I suppose I picked up Sure Signs: New and Selected Poems by Ted Kooser at some AWP conference, because while the book was published in 1980, my copy is crisp and clean (excepting my recent reading of it).

The quotes on the back by poets such as Denise Levertov are all predicting the book will become (so by now has become) a classic, and while there's no doubt Kooser's poetry is in the vain of the best rural poets (I think here of Richard Hugo, William Stafford, Wendell Berry, and even Robert Frost, all whom seem inspirations for Kooser) I'm not sure it qualifies as "classic." Maybe I don't really know what that means when it comes to the written word. My first car was definitely a classic: a 1966 Ford Mustang. I enjoy some good ol' rock and roll that we might call classic--"Gimme Shelter" by the Rolling Stones, for example. But calling a book of poems a classic is tougher, and if I had to choose among the 165 books of poetry on my shelf (I just counted them), I wouldn't right now put this particular volume among the top.

Still, there's much to admire in Sure Signs, including brevity, an amazing (if sometimes almost overbearing) command of metaphor, and a strong sense of place: rural and small-town Nebraska, mostly. I can't say I've read much Kooser before, though undoubtedly I have--he was U.S. Poet Laureate from 2004 to 2006, and writes the "American Life in Poetry" weekly column, to which I subscribe. In both cases, though, his job is primarily to promote the poetry of others, and poetry as an American good. Yet right away I recognized the first poem, "Selecting a Reader," a sort of inside joke for poets, I think, though I hope you don't have to be a writer of poems to enjoy this particular one.

My favorite, though, is not quite in the middle of the collection, and I realize I like it not only because of the craft and quality of the poem itself, but because I'm a father:

At the End of the Weekend

It is Sunday afternoon,
and I suddenly miss
my distant son, who at ten
has just this instant buzzed
my house in a flying
cardboard box, dipping
one wing to look down over
my shimmering roof, the yard,
the car in the drive. In his room
three hundred miles from me,
he tightens his helmet,
grips the controls, turns
loops and rolls. My windows
rattle. On days like this,
the least quick shadow crossing
the page makes me look up
at the sky like a goose,
squinting to see that flash
that I dream is his thought of me
daring to fall through the distance,
then climbing, full throttle, away.

So is Sure Signs a classic? I can't say. This poem certainly feels like a "classic" to me, like Theodore Roethke's "My Papa's Walz," a definite classic. As for the collection, take a peek and judge for yourself. I read it in one not-too-long sitting, and can recommend at least that.

Girls for Grandparents

A handful of photos of the girls for the grandparents, since it's been a while. These are photos from the last week: our older's viola recital and 5th grade graduation. Yikes, I can't believe she'll be in middle school next school year (which for us starts in mid-July)!

Our younger daughter, waiting for the recital to start.

Here she talks with her piano teacher, who accompanied our older daughter as she played.

Our older daughter concentrates on playing.

Cardiovascular system, as displayed by my younger daughter and her classmates.

For 5th grade graduation at Civano Community School, the youngers make custom hats for the kids who are graduating.

It's a bit of a sad time for many. Or at least a time to contemplate the years.

Reading her "will."

Passing tissues along in case they get teary eyed, which most of the girls did.

Our older daughter mostly held it together, though.

Except when they were altogether cracking up.

Civano Community School marm Pam Bateman shows off a self-portrait, one for each year for each graduating student. It's great fun.

Definitely great fun.

Dancing the "Chicken Dance" to conclude graduation.

One more photo with the hat...

... and a photo without.

Our older daughter started at Civano in 2nd grade; our younger in K. Both are fairly different learners, I think, and both are excelling in this great school. Many thanks to the wonderful teachers and staff!

Micro Review: What Narcissism Means to Me

Tony Hoagland's third book of poetry, What Narcissism Means to Me, has been sitting on my shelf since I purchased a signed copy following his reading at the AWP conference in Austin back in 2005. Three years later, I couldn't recall any of the specific poems he read, but remember enjoying them quite a bit live.

After reading the collection of nearly 40 poems divided into 4 sections -- America, Social Life, Blues, Luck -- I can see why I enjoyed the reading so much, and yet must say too that the book at first lacked the punch I expected. That's not to say I didn't enjoy many of the poems, but it took me a while to get into them; they're a fair bit different, more conversational if you will, than much of the poetry I generally read. And that's a good thing, because right now (and always?) I'm looking to broaden my poetry horizons. But until the last two poems of the first section, I wasn't convinced by Hoagland's style or the book. After that, though, things moved along at a better clip, if not a stronger quip.

Hoagland's style is represented in the first two lines (the first stanza) of "Parade," the first poem in the collection that really struck a chord for me:

Peter says if you're going to talk about suffering

you have to mention pleasure too.

One of my favorites is "Windchime," which after my on-the-page reading I recall from Hoagland's reading in Austin. It seems fitting to end this micro review with that full poem: and my endorsement for the book, for whatever that's worth:

Windchime

She goes out to hang the windchime

in her nightie and her work boots.

It's six-thirty in the morning

and she's standing on the plastic ice chest

tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,

windchime in her left hand,

hammer in her right, the nail

gripped tight between her teeth

but nothing happens next because

she's trying to figure out

how to switch #1 with #3.

She must have been standing in the kitchen,

coffee in her hand, asleep,

when she heard it--the wind blowing

through the sound the windchime

wasn't making

becuase it wasn't there.

No one, including me, especially anymore believes

till death do us part,

but I can see what I would miss in leaving--

the way her ankles go into the work boots

as she stands upon the ice chest;

the problem scrunched into her forehead;

the little kissable mouth

with the nail in it.

The Wildflower Wars

A dazzling wildflower season spells trouble for the master-planned communities that spread like invasive weeds along the edges of urban areas across the West. How are the wildflower wars being waged, and why is it important to have natural yards in cities, anyway? Here's my take:

http://americancity.org/daily/entry/834/

Elgin High Desert Grasslands

This weekend we joined two other Civano families for a weekend in and around Elgin, Arizona, about fifty miles southeast of Tucson in high Chihuahuan desert grasslands (now mostly rangeland, though still beautiful). Below are a few photos from the trip, but be sure to see these and many others in larger format in the gallery (here).

We stayed at the Rancho Milagro Bed and Breakfast outside Elgin, which we highly recommend.

Our first evening we went to the small, funky town of Patagonia, where the girls rode the merry-go-round.

Morning view of the Mustang Mountains.

Grasslands, and plenty of them.

Tucked among the grasses was a delightfully surprising amount of wildflowers like this beauty.

Lots of wildlife, too, like this bird that found us as curious as we found him.

And the clouds were pretty awesome, too.

Sonoran fountain at the B&B.

My lovely girls: older daughter, wife, and younger daughter. Happy Mother's Day, Billie!

Check out all of the photos in the gallery now!

Micro Review: Genius Loci

Over the last two years, my writer's mind has been so attuned to creative nonfiction that the poetry bug, mostly, hasn't been there. And though I've read more than a dozen books of poetry this year, and written some poems that are ready to fly, I haven't had the drive to write poetry, the kind of fevered pitch that occurs when the mind and body become more of a channel than an instigator.

When I'm in that zone, though, every book of poetry I read, it seems, spurs new poetry ideas of my own. Maybe that's why so many readers of poetry are writers of poetry: it's art that propels more art. So I'm excited to report that in my recent flurry of reading poetry books, it's the latest--Alison Hawthorne Deming's Genius Loci (Penguin, 2005)--that has pushed me into the zone. Not long after I settled into the first section, I had my notebook in hand, scratching out ideas for poems.

That's a sure sign that I like the poetry in the collection, and I must say that Genius Loci is one of my favorite recent collections. Not only are the poems filled with reverence for natural and human communities and a certain Earthly wisdom, but they are rich narratives full of stunning imagery, allusion, and metaphor. Take the first three stanzas of "Biophilia," for example:

On the day I found the snakemouth orchids,

little explosions of organic joy,

blooming in the spaghnum bog, you were walking

a thousand miles away and found a half-grown

gopher tortoise, head collapsed on dozer-paws,

asleep beside the trail. No dreams to dream,

you wrote, just evolved too soon. And there it lay

in the awful smolder of wildfire and

summer heat, waiting for its mind to change.

Surprisingly, perhaps, I found myself drawn more to the longer poems in the collection, like "The Yaak," "Under the Influence of Ironwoods," "Short Treatise on Birds," "The Charting" (perhaps my favorite in the collection), and "Wild Fruit." It's surprising because I have a hard time writing longer poems; feel like I don't have the attention span, patience, or artistic planning capacity for it. All three, likely.

And yet Deming's poems make me want to stretch myself in that way, to in effect scribe "every longing that ever led you / where you needed to go in spite of your best intensions," as "Biophilia" suggests near its brilliant ending.

Genius Loci--meaning "a guardian spirit," a deep sense of place--is just right for stretching my spirit; and yours too, I'd wager.

Micro Review: Legacy

Just a few days ago I received a slim package from Jane Levin, a contributor to Terrain.org's current issue and a seasonal resident--this year, at least--of the Sonoran desert. The package arrived from Minnesota, and was filled with Jane's first chapbook, Legacy, published by Moonflower Press just a few weeks ago.

I remember Jane's single-poem submission both because it is rare for a submitter to send only a single poem, and also because that poem--the first in this chapbook, "Atoll;" it was originally published in The Minnesota Women's Press--was small, simple, and stunning. Naturally, we accepted it and requested others. You can read them here.

Legacy contains just twenty poems, and many of those are a dozen lines or less. But here as in the best poetry, it seems, less is more. Take this poem, for example:

Odd Girl Out

Grandville, Minnesota

Where Larsens marry the Larsons

who sat behind them in homeroom,

their connection more contagion

than attraction.

Unmarried girls leave.

Tomboys, who grew up in foxholes

to escape friendly ire don't tell.

No one asks.

~~~

The poems are often riddles, many sensual Lesbian love poems, others about Jewish themes and Levin's struggle with ovarian cancer. A few are what we might call nature poetry. All are poignant and precise--a compelling chapbook indeed.

So how to go about getting a copy? Looks like the only way right now is to shoot an email to moonflower press at gmail dot com. Or contact me and I'll forward your request to Jane. I think you'll be pleased.

Micro Review: Here, Bullet

Brian Turner's Here, Bullet has received a lot of recognition since it won the 2005 Beatrice Haley Award (and since then a host of others) and published the same year. And rightfully so. The poetry is strong, the topic both horrifying and intensely interesting, the imagery stunning. I'm not sure that there's been a more important book of poetry this decade. I think there have been finer books, books perhaps more important for the poetry industrial complex, but few as essential to Americans because it does something none has yet done: "Turner has sent back a dispatch," says The New York Times Book Review, "from a place arguably more incomprehensible than the moon--the war in Iraq--and deserves our thanks."

I read Here, Bullet in two sittings: late into the evening last night, when I wanted to get a flavor for the book, intending to read just the first poem but subsequently held by it until halfway through half past midnight. And again this morning, when I couldn't put it down until finishing it.

I was fortunate to attend a reading by Turner here at the University of Arizona back in, I think, 2006. He blew the room away, because his reading is as intense as the poems, showering the room in a bullet spray of words, leaving us all wounded and better for it.

The words to describe this collection are visceral, poignant, imperative. Take, for example, the title poem:

Here, Bullet

If a body is what you want,
then here is bone and gristle and flesh.
Here is the clavicle-snapped wish,
the aorta's opened valves, the leap
thought makes at the synaptic gap.
Here is the adrenaline rush you crave,
that inexorable flight, that insane puncture
into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish
what you've started. Because here, Bullet,
here is where I complete the word you bring
hissing throguh the air, here is where I moan
the barrel's cold esophagus, triggering
my tongue's explosives for the rifling I have
inside of me, each twist of the round
spun deeper, because here, Bullet,
here is where the world ends, every time.

Last week I said Jake Adam York's new collection is essential, and it is. So is Here, Bullet--and more so in this time in our history.

.

(And for more info about Turner, read his first book interview by Kate Greenstreet and listen to Turner read some of his poetry over at From the Fishouse.)

Micro Reviews: Freshly Rooted, and Pity the Drowned Horses

I just finished Emily Wall's Freshly Rooted and Sheryl Luna's Pity the Drowned Horses, and as distinct as the poetry in each is, I'm struck by their similarities. Both have a rich relationship to place: landscape fully forms and informs the poetry.

For Wall, whose book was published by Ireland's Salmon Poetry in 2007, the place is Alaska, predominantly, and Juneau where she lives now, dark with rain and ravens and a kind of redemption that the landscape both gives and demands. For example:

Three black knives
cleave morning air.
Snow has softened the sound
but even driving
beside them, we hear
the slicing of wings.

- from "Composition: Ravens"

While there's a Mary Oliver-like quality to much of the poetry, there's also an intimacy with the built places of Wall's northern (and sometimes southern) world not so common in Oliver's work, and toward the end of the book a certain jazzy tendancy that I find quite lovely. For example, the first stanza of "Rain on South Franklin Street," one of my favorites:

Oh you know that
voodoo rain,
the way he carries
his names, giving a new one
at each gas station
liquor store—
now he's she-rain
all seductive tears and tongue,
now dog
rain, teeth & yips on the metal roof.

If Wall's influence is largely Oliver, then Sheryl Luna's poetic influence may be Jimmy Santiago Baca, whose Black Mesa Poems is a collection to emulate indeed. But that comparison may be too easy. While I find Baca's work to have a certain shamanistic quality, Luna's is mythical in a different and I feel deeper sense. It's a tie to landscape removed and then returned, a lineage of place both terrible and rewarding, an impressive poetic narrative of life on the border. It's no surprise, then, that Pity the Drowned Horses was awarded the inaugural Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize from the Institute for Latino Studies and the Creative Writing Program at the University of Notre Dame in 2004.

"Fence on the Border" near the end of the collection is perhaps my favorite. It begins:

It is in the bending and the pain,
the way old paint scrapes off old wood,
the way elders light our way through time
on their way to a smaller frailty.

Luna's success, in part, stems from the fact that she crafts an honest perspective, honest story and scene if you will, without bludgeoning the reader in image or sensibility. That is, the poetry is elegant yet narrative, flowing yet tight. Woven is close to the right word.

From "The Bullfight:"

My blood, of necessity, will eventually seep
into the desert; it is the way of my people;
it is the way of all people: crossing borders,

learning of caliche and wind, building monuments
from mud, finding something of themselves,
losing something of themselves.

If having an intimate relationship with place means losing something of themselves, then readers are the ones who gain in Freshly Rooted and Pity the Drowned Horses.

Micro Review: A Murmuration of Starlings

This summer I hope to catch up on a lot of poetry books I've been meaning to read over the last year, or more, but haven't gotten to for the usual reasons. School's not out just quite yet, but I still had the opportunity to read Jake Adam York's A Murmuration of Starlings, his second book.

So begins what I hope to be a series of micro reviews (that is, a paragraph or so) for each of the poetry books I read over the summer, probably one a week:

A Murmuration of Starlings
Poems by Jake Adam York
The Crab Orchard Series in Poetry - Open Competition Award

I finally had the opportunity to read A Murmuration of Starlings, and found it--as I expected--pretty damn excellent. This book, as with the first (Murder Ballads) though in a more focused way, gives me hope that poetry can matter in the larger context; that is, that it is good not just in its noble literary sense, but good also in the sense of making a difference in the world. Murmuration makes a difference, and I'm sad to say that there are not many poetry books that can make that claim, even as much as I like others, too (a statement that I realize won't make me popular among the poets, but so be it).

This one is essential.

March Yard Flowers

I'm running behind on posts, I know, but 'tis the season. School's almost out, and then I may have a moderately regular blog post schedule. Or at least I'll keep telling you that.

My new Canon XSi arrived late last week and while I haven't had much of a chance to play with it, I did take a couple photos from my backyard:

The rest of these photos, though, are three weeks old now, from the amazing spring wildflowers we've had (and still continue to have). These are all from our yard, our neighbors' yards, and a small walkabout at Civano. These and 30 others are available at a larger size in my gallery.

The sweet acacia bloom this spring has been spectacular: the trees are as yellow as Colorado aspens in the autumn.

Closer view of sweet acacia bloom. These are predominant street trees in our neighborhood.

Bloom stalk of my neighbor's agave.

It is not an overstatement, I think, to say that our street had the best wildflowers in Civano this year.

My younger daughter: a flower among flowers.

Ocotillo buds just before bloom, with palo verde in the background. I must say I love this photo.

Lovely scented star jasmine in my neighbor's yard, with our purple house in the background.

Hesperaloe leaves and palo verde shadow against the wall of the Civano Nursery.

Indian blanket soaking in the sun.

View the March Yard Flower photo gallery.

Ammonsfest

I just finished reading A.R. Ammons's delightful and important book-length poem Garbage, which won the 1993 National Book Award. I also gave a presentation and led a discussion on it here at the UA creative writing MFA program, for my "modern poetics and the environmental muse" course. (On a site note, read this excellent analysis of the poem to learn more both about the poem and about the waste-to-landfill process; it's fascinating.)

I have before and I will again thank Miriam Marty Clark for introducing me to A.R. Ammons (specifically, his Selected Poems, Expanded Edition, published in 1987). That was probably 1989 or therabouts, when I was a sophomore or junior at Auburn University, when I first started writing poetry seriously. Miriam, who has been on the Terrain.org editorial board since I started the publication eleven years ago, taught an upper-level contemporary poetry course. She did her Ph.D. thesis on Ammons, so knew his work intimately.

In doing research for the presentation, I turned to another Ammons researcher, fellow Salmon poet Philip Fried, editor of The Manhattan Review. Turns out that Phil interviewed Archie for MR's second issue, back in 1980. Phil was kind enough to send me that issue, collected deep from the dark confines of his closet. The interview, and Phil's afterword, are astounding, and I'm delighted to report that he is going to let Terrain.org reprint the entire interview and afterword. It'll be our feature interview in the winter/spring 2009 issue. The issue's theme is "Symbiosis," which if you know Ammons's work is perfect.

A couple good poetry blogger friends had the opportunity to study under Ammons at Cornell: Gina Franco and Jake Adam York. I'd like to have long conversations with both of them about their experience. Some day I hope to. (I feel especially connected to Jake in this capacity because we both studied poetry under R.T. Smith while at Auburn University. Though, Gina has more more beautiful hair....)

An Ammons poem, then, to leave you on:

He Held Radical Light

He held radical light
as music in his skull: music
turned, as
over ridges immanences of evening light
rise, turned
back over the furrows of his brain
into the dark, shuddered,
shot out again
in long swaying swirls of sound:

reality had little weight in his transcendence
so he
had trouble keeping
his feet on the ground, was
terrified by that
and liked himself, and others, mostly
under roofs:
nevertheless, when the
light churned and changed

his head to music, nothing could keep him
off the mountains, his
head back, mouth working,
wrestling to say, to cut loose
from the high, unimaginable hook:
released, hidden from the stars, he ate,
burped, said he was like any one
of us: demanded he
was like any one of us.

From the School Art Exhibit

The Life Tree in a Forest of Death
Oil on Canvas Panel, 2007
by my older daughter

A Night at Kitt Peak National Observatory

On Thursday evening my older daughter and I participated in the Kitt Peak National Observatory nightly observing program, which was really cool. Some photos below, and more over on my gallery. I definitely recommend this for folks interested in astronomy, though be sure to make reservations a few weeks ahead of time and be flexible, because the program can be cancelled due to weather. This was our third attempt to get up there.

Kitt Peak, a part of the Tohono O'odham reservation, is about 50 miles from Tucson. On the way up, we stopped on this side road to snap a few photos.

The road up to Kitt Peak, which unless you are a part of the nightly observing program, closes at 4 p.m. Driving down after the program ended at about 10:45 p.m., we had to have our headlights off for the first mile.

A mural on a large concrete ballast. And who's that cutie in the middle?

The most recognizable observatory (of 26) atop Kitt Peak: the Mayall 4-meter telescope.

Sunset view from the SARA Observatory.

Final light at SARA.

View these and 15 other larger photos on my gallery.

And check out the Kitt Peak live KPCam here.

Extended Vacation

At the realization that I had to go back to work after taking a couple days off, my younger daughter wrote me an excuse for an extended vacation, courtesy of my boss. Ah, if only it were so easy!

And unfortunately I'm home today because I'm under the weather. Strep, I fear.

The Cost of War

From Jeremy Funk, Americans United for Change:

Five years ago today, President Bush declared war on Iraq.

He went on TV and addressed the American people, saying:

The people of the United States and our friends and allies will not live at the mercy of an outlaw regime that threatens the peace with weapons of mass murder.

The American people have paid a terrible price for that statement:

http://www.americansunitedforchange.com/costofwar

In a matter of days, the U.S. military will likely suffer its 4,000th casualty from the war -- 4,000 brave young men and women who won't be coming home to their mothers or fathers, sons or daughters.

And while our troops overseas and their courageous families here at home have paid the highest price, every American has been impacted by the President's war.

With the half-trillion dollars that President Bush has already spent in Iraq, we could rebuild the Gulf Coast. We could fix our failing schools. We could give every child healthcare.

How much more are Americans willing to pay for President Bush's war in Iraq?

The cost of the war can't be measured merely in dollars. Click here to watch the Americans United for Change new YouTube video about the real cost of the five years of war:

http://www.americansunitedforchange.com/costofwar

~~~

Does anyone still doubt how we as a nation have been deceived? Can anyone legitimately justify the war and its expenses? How guilty are we for allowing this to continue?

Wildflowers, Wildflowers, Wildflowers

I returned yesterday from two extraordinary days of wildflower hunting in the mountains north of Tucson and east of Phoenix (Superstitions, Dripping Springs, Apache Leap, and points thereby). I went with my friend Scott Calhoun and three other landscape designers and folks I hadn't met before: Julie from Chicago, Hilary from Indiana (from England originally), and Judy from here in Tucson.

We had a great time stumbling upon wildflowers, talking shop, raging on the current political administration, and eating chile rellenos. The twist-cap Australian wine was pretty good, too.

We saw so much, and I took so many photos, that I've divided the trip into three galleries, and I hope you'll visit all three!

Dripping Springs Mountains Wildflowers

View all 58 Dripping Springs Mountains wildflower photos >>

.

Boyce Thompson Arboretum

View all 16 Boyce Thompson Arboretum photos >>

.

Superstition Mountains Wildflowers

View all 75 Superstition Mountains (and Lost Dutchman State Park) wildflower photos >>

Or head on over to the main SimmonsBuntin.com Gallery, where links to these and all galleries are located.

The Year of Self-Indulgence

Saw Jennifer Michael Hecht last night for the first of her three lectures for the UA's Astrobiology and the Sacred annual series. Pretty mind-bending stuff. One of the more eloquent athiests I've heard. Compelling visions, hers.

*

Saturday evening my older daughter and I will attend Kitt Peak National Observatory's Nightly Observance Program. Should be an interesting experience, and cold, too. I hope to work the experience into an essay on vision, of a sort.

*

Sunday through Tuesday I'm off to the Superstition Mountains with compadre Scott Calhoun, and others, for a few more days of wildflower photography. This is turning out to be the Year of Self-Indulgence.

*

What else is self-indulgent? Last week I spent $100 to join The Police Fan Club so I could advance purchase $111 tickets to see The Police with Elvis Costello up at Red Rocks Amphitheatre outside Denver on July 22. I've been a lifelong fan of The Police, and while I've seen Sting in concert, never the trio. Much to my chagrin, Billie and the girls will be back in school (our year-round schedule). I hope I'm allowed to bring in my camera....

*

Speaking of camera, another self-indulgence: I recently purchased a new wide-angle lens, and have ordered the new Canon Rebel XSi, too. Patience is not one of my better virtues.

*

Conversely, I haven't done our taxes yet. We'll owe this year, I'm afraid.

*

Grandpa Bill and Grammie Gloria are coming in next week. Between the wildflower jaunt and working late, I probably won't get to see them much, which is my loss.

*

More self-indulgences, you ask? I'm home typing this instead of at work so I can catch the girls' talent show on their last day before spring break. I thought that actually less indulgent than going to work, which was my original plan.

*

After the Wildbranch Writing Workshop in Vermont in June (assuming I get in, and if I go that's certainly another self-indulgence) and after the July issue of Terrain.org launches (Understory / Overgrowth), I'm hoping to make this the summer of poetry. There's something on the horizon in that context, but it's way out on the horizon and solely depends on me putting pen to paper and finding poetic success. Always an unknown.

*

On the nonfiction front, still lots of submissions out there, though nothing new from a publishing perspective to report. But my friend and fellow UA MFA nonfictioner Ben Quick has an excellent essay in the current issue of Orion on Agent Orange. Way to go, Ben!

*

Listening to some old grunge favorites lately: Screaming Trees, Pearl Jam, Singles soundtrack. All really frickin' awesome. What about Nirvana? All in good time, my friends.

*

Finished listening to Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials triology (The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, The Amber Spyglass). Very well-written, very intriguing. The last one had one braid that was notably less interesting than the main story, and the ending was a bit mushy, but otherwise a great set of books that are in theory oriented toward children, but are really for adults (and young adults I suppose). Great narration on the CDs.

*

Off to the talent show now. Look for photos from the wildflower trip mid-next week.

Picacho Peak Wildflowers

The flowers at Ironwood Forest National Monument aren't bad. The flowers at Picacho Peak State Park are absolutely amazing. Below are 17 glimpses of my morning hike with my older daughter. There are a total of 63 colorful images over in the gallery, too.

Sunrise over a low peak adjacent to Picacho Peak, itself about 40 miles northwest of Tucson. This first set of photos is taken with my new 10-20mm wide-angle lens, which is awesome!

My older daughter (the younger lass, alas, is under the weather) on the trail up to the peak.

And her old man, smiling but---with eyes hidden in shadow---perhaps a bit shifty?

The older rascalian, again. We had pretty amazing clouds in addition to flowers this morning.

Poppies and a dramatic view as we climb the trail to the peak.

A more horizontal view. There are saguaros and other cacti a plenty at the park.

For example, these teddy bear cholla.

The patches of Mexican gold-poppies, desert lupine, fiddleneck, desert chicory, and wild heliotrope were fairly stunning.

But here's one of my favorite flowers (and a wildflower, at that)!

Switching to the trusty ol' macro lens now. What a difference a good lens makes!

Poppies among Picacho's volcanic soil.

Found composition: cholla joint, poppies, verbena bloom (or filaree, an exotic, perhaps), and more.

Mexican gold-poppies and desert lupine.

Desert chicory; not as plentify as the others, but stunning nonetheless.

Fiddleneck among poppies and lupine, with hedgehog cactus in the background.

Wahoooooo for wildflowers!

Not a bad way to spend to spend the morning, indeed!

View all 63 of the Picacho Peak wildflower photos now.

Return to the Ostrich Ranch

Periodically the girls and I stop by Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch northwest of Tucson off Interstate 10. To our delight, there always seems to be something new. This time, following a wildflower hike at Picacho Peak (see above), my older daughter and I stopped. Some photos below and a few more on my site's gallery:

The ostriches are always happy to see us!

Speaking from experience, it's true: ostriches do bite, with a blind indiscriminate thrust.

The key deer are always great fun to feed.

And apparently the camera's pretty tasty, too!

The rainbow lorikeet aviary's pretty great, too.

Taking the other bird's-eye view, I suppose.

So what's new there? Miniature donkeys and emus. Quite a managerie they've got going on. I'm amazed, too, how many people zoom by and never stop. Trust me, it's a wonderful and unique experience.

View the other photos on the gallery now.