Brownshirts, blackshirts, DHS, ICE; government-sanctioned domestic terrorist organizations…no

matter.  Persons still have to venture down the road to Walsenburg occasionally to partake

of their excellent city dump and groceries or, closer to home, up the driveway to transfer water

to one’s tank, socially distancing from above, and wander about

Libre

whose first ever electronically assisted annual meeting went off fairly smoothly one Saturday

afternoon with nearly the entire board in attendance.  A little drifting rain followed but nothing

measurable until,

uh-oh, the next afternoon when, although safely removed from the Burn Scare, an isolated

deluge fortuitously forestalled a surprise drop-in [I hate surprise drop-ins!] from Denver

as well as eliminating our electricity for about four hours.  The wet let up enough for a walk

just before Patsy made a pre-arranged appearance, wherein snacks and shrimps with enough sparkling wine to get a little tipsy were much enjoyed whilst catching up on many things such as

dogs – her two exuberant Gordon Setters, currently en-coned due to mysterious lacerations, as well as ours – la Corona, her ridgetop summer, the distress of politics.  We tried to engage in

hopefulness and wishful thinking…she left us to cross the valley in darkness as rain returned.

The week began wetly up the creek, the smells as intense as the heightened colors, smells

not entirely confined to the forest;

We visited Dean, saw what he’d been painting and

wished him well on his upcoming surgery

Wednesday in the Springs

while our Wednesday began with a Libre well meeting at, where else, the well.  Talk of erosion was inconclusive but the project of repair and renewal remained on track so all was Well.

The next day, in the spirit of exploratory openness, we drove up to Westcliffe to check out the health food store, finding it full of Amish ladies but with little if any fresh produce, and

Lowe’s supermarket, ten minutes further than Walsenburg’s Safeway and proudly lacking anything remotely organic. We managed to fulfill most of our needs inorganically and Linda brought home a package of “farm-raised American-slaughtered” pharmaceutically-enhanced chicken “tenders” so determinedly tasteless no amount of seasoning could redeem them.  White People’s chicken, which we couldn’t help – “barn-raised” – but feel sorry for.  Wednesday was a weird day anyway; from Westcliffe we trailed processions of summering Texans south

through the recreational suburbs of Custer County until curves slowed them at the Huerfano line, left them behind, paused at the post office, and went home to the Horse Problem, horses from a neighboring watershed still munching the meager leavings of the meadow.  After consulting with an equally impacted neighbor [“I got a gun”] and lunch L. left the assumed

owner a message and we then spent the afternoon raptly immersed in John Lewis’ Memorial from Ebenezer Baptist in Atlanta. With interruptions, the first being a call from Dean with the good news he’d made it home from surgery the Same Day, after which we returned to Waiting for Obama only to be blindsided by Reverend James Lawson, a frail old man who, once helped to the podium, began with a poem by Czeslaw Milosz and became a lion, a living embodiment of the Movement who described the powerful history of opposition, the lives, the victories, the setbacks, the racism, Plantation Capitalism…he acknowledged many voices and the work left to be done, finished up with Langston Hughes and the legacy of John Lewis. We were interrupted a little after that by a call from the horses’ owner who went on unhinged about his unhinged life and loose horses though after an hour he seemed to promise he’d be over

in the evening to lure them home with a bucket of oats….maybe.

We were finally able to resume Waiting for Barack, the third and most recent president invited to speak that day*, every inspirational speaker along the way [save the one about horses] having made the wait well worth it.  By the time all was said, done and interrupted and we’d spent the whole afternoon Mr. Obama showed up, spoke up and though I was more moved by Reverend Lawson the entire uplifting event made for an eloquent reproach to the Repuppetlican Party’s relentless and short-sighted programs of unquenchable instant grabification just by giving honor to the remarkable – and brave – American life of John Robert Lewis.

I took a quick little ramble up Fossil Hill, found Unsettling Evidence of Bear, but the atmosphere, exacerbated by the first of several calls from an increasingly incoherent horse owner after

dinner, turned stranger still when a rushing sound became a nearly unbearable cacophony of multi-sized hailstones battering against the tin, panicking the dogs as nothing else ever has.

The hailstones fortunately passed fairly quickly but not the stoned ravings left

on the answering machine far into the night; doesn’t look like anyone will be coming by to collect those horses anytime soon**.  In the morning, damp forest, temporarily no horses…

and time will tell.

*George W. Bush [!], Bill Clinton, Obama of course and a written tribute from Jimmy Carter; every living president worthy of the office bore witness.

**much of this is attributable to a damaged mental state brought on by an updated version of those smallpox-infested 19th century trade blankets as apparently the equestrian in question was introduced to crack cocaine some years ago and as a result he, his neighbors and his sad horses continue to reap the benefits of his ruined mind.