The Caldor Fire cut short my summer aspen wanderings. Right now, one of the hot spots is threatening (or has burned) some of the groves. Here’s a poem from decades ago:
Aspen Grove
Somewhere between French Camp
and Tanglefoot, my dog and I started up
the trail, climbing hairpins through dusty hot –
ceanothus, manzanita – up to a sudden
midst of silent green community.
Family of aspen all of a root,
relations without words.
The language confusing at first.
My dog stopped in the trail, sniffed breeze,
cocked her ears. Every aspen leaf a-tremble,
origami – if paper could be so delicate.
Skin of paper, as if someone had written
a history of snow over rock over snow.
Centerpiece of one living tree
with so many minds; a net of roots
to hold the mountain together.
Whispers I couldn’t quite hear, angels
on the breeze of a half-moon day. My dog
stood listening. Shiver-cool of noon.
~ Taylor Graham
from Uplift (www.coldriverpress.org)
