Hiking up a dark wet creek bed into the Pecos one afternoon, my friend Sallie said to me, “Who’s to say the earth might not end up inhabited by molds, and that wouldn’t be such a bad thing?” The question has resonated with me for years, and comes when I reach my limit for being upset by the course we humans are on, and the realization I’m powerless to do anything significant about it.
This morning at Counter Culture three women sit together and have breakfast, they are of similar age, about sixty. One of them, of smaller build than her companions takes over the conversation. This is wrong and that is a travesty and this is what I will tell you; emphatic about all of it, she does not let up. Recognizing a couple of other patrons wandering into the dining room the woman raises her voice yet another level, dragging them by the ear over to her table. She introduces them, the proud arbiter reciting glowing provenance of pieces in her collection. They look mildly embarrassed, but give her the attention she demands. More than once I wish she would be quiet and please, give the world a chance to be whatever it all is.
The next morning.
A heavy rain fell last night. Waking in grey stillness I hear frogs trilling. I go out on the portal in the cool dampness and listen. There are hundreds if not thousands of voices calling, responding. I can still hear them. We are six or eight miles from any stream. It is an odd and stirring sound and one of the few times I’ve heard it in the desert. But for the frogs I am alone. The solitude of my kind, a small sharp knife turning. Pushing a little deeper at times like this, times like this witnessing but not sharing such a beautiful occurrence of nature. Reminded of unanswered callings.
Gordon Bunker
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