Story Circle Book Reviews > Books: reviewed‎ (489)

Cliff swallows were winging under the bridge over the Shenandoah. Clinging to the bridge were their nests: gourd-shaped, pebbly-textured structures made of individual beak-sized pellets of mud gathered by both male and female. The intricate pattern of the cliff swallows' plumage, one I have to believe some artist's hand lingered over—buff forehead, striped blue back, light rump—was distinctly visible as they flew with effortless skill and grace, and perhaps also joy and daring, so very close to me. I watched them, and my eyes and heart took flight and participated in their beauty.

"I have frequently been asked what first turned my thoughts towards woman's rights," Matilda wrote later. "I think I was born with a hatred of oppression, and, too, in my father's house, I was trained in the anti-slavery ranks." In Matilda's youth, no organization existed to fight for the rights of women, but she came to realize that the reform strategies that worked for one group could work for others, too.

"Hi, Blackie. Remember me? I'm Dorris with two r's." she says.

"I remember you, Dorris with two r's," he replies, "I asked Truva to invite you." He paused and then said, "You look like a Kiddo to me, though, as in Kiddo with two d's."

Dorris didn't mind.

"Most people call me Blackie, but you can call me Black."

The prints took my breath away. Something deep inside me stood at attention, not afraid, but now much more alert, awed, as if the tracks were a sacrament. I was in the presence of a true predator, in fact, the perfect predator.

Puma concolor—cat of one color. The cat with the tawny coat that blends in perfectly with her surroundings is the quintessence of grace, speed, agility, and stealth... The quiet of the icy landscape penetrated my body, and my mind was still. This cougar passed where I am standing.

[W]e're in the second half of our lives and it's probably the most confusing era we've ever experienced. We've accomplished a lot in our lives—much of it sweetly, satisfyingly mundane; some of it dramatically impressive—but where do we go from here? ... Our generation was raised on sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, and many of us who survived still have some of that wild energy to burn. ... We want to continue to be involved, excited, and enthusiastic about life in ways that have meaning to us and to our loved ones.

...There is a chime, my love,
there is a breeze, and starlight
sows the crevices and seas.
We know the rest.

Heavy frost covered the ground. The moonlight had transformed it into a field of shimmering diamonds. The highest peaks on Earth glowed like silver-white goddesses reaching for the sky. With steam coming from my breath, I walked to the hilltop to maximize the view. The soundscape was equally enchanting; glacial rivers rushed in the distance, yak bells chimed in the pastures below, and occasionally an avalanche rumbled down a mountainside.

Auker lives a life typically considered man's domain. She shares this life with her husband, and the poems reflect the experiences of both. Each poem shares a snippet of Auker's daily life, reflecting never-ending chores mixed with ever-recurring gratitude. Auker composes in her head while on horseback, somehow later wrangling time to record her encounters. Her poems are laced with self reflections unique to her lifestyle but readily grasped. Excerpts (from separate poems) provide a sampling of the flavor:

For it is often through miles and testing
That a girl can find her strong,
And sometimes, the most luminous beauty
Comes from days that are hard and long.

The wild is singing a simple song in seven shades of complicated. It
sings of lost and loss and light and lissome wind. It moans of dark
and dripping and dank and draining and devils in the night.
Something sacred this way comes.

Teach me to see
Beyond my nation,
Beyond my appetite
More than tracks in the dust,
the barefoot bear foot,
To see past the words
or agendas
or ones and zeros
or ancient Jungian bleed

Tomorrow we start this cow and bull hunt.
It's catch and release every year.
But you couldn't pay me to stay at home
When most of what I love is out here.

The alarm sings at 4 a.m.
Ours is a work song—
   a song of doing, with hands and hearts—
      a heartbeat song.

It is an I-N-G song—
   a song of rising, going, growing,
      moving, mounting, being there
where the work is always waiting

Ours is a living song,
   a defining song, a refining song—
      trial by fire—
a some days are hard in four/four time song.
It is a cycle song, a season song,
a never-ending circle song—
      with weather. And death