Paw and Boot

"Have you a corner or stone itching to be scratched first?" Hand was licking his paw and preening his ears and muzzle. His whiskers now glistening with the full Wildness of Hare.

Shore knew she would start with the Earth Worms. "Yes," is all she said. She was the quiet one. Her brother was not.

"Then let's get on with the givings, sister dear. Cross and criss and leave the bliss. This place be blessed. Hurray,"  The two bopped hands and paws like two boxers preparing for a match. It was of course a sort of match this day of Feeding the Land.

From the sky above the prairie front Those Who Watch kept their eyes on the tracks that lit the land's skin with Hare and Human prints. Bounding from corner post in leaps counted by sevens Hand covered the low land.

Black rubber boot prints appeared more slowly yet firmly evident in a path that started at the door of the cozy kitchen, stopped at the cedar wood bin where dark rich compost was being made. Silent Shore fed the words her magic equal to all the goodness the red dirt-makers churned out day in day out.

All through the day leading up to the Equal Moon Harvest Moon the Blended Hare siblings fed the land with Wildness.

While Shore and Hand were busy with their jolly track-making a journey of another sort was taking place in the heavens. A golden burrow-- also on a trailer-- was pulled by a strongly muscled pirate of a Human making his way down a snow-like grade of clouds. Within the golden burrow, a mother pushed that push of all ancient pushes.

Click on the image for a closer look at the 'snow-like grade of clouds.'

"Nearly there my darling, nearly there," The Pirate though always fierce and manly in his everyday was always overcome with tenderness when his dear wife was in her birthing time.

Between pants, and a final contraction, the fully formed and miniature blended hare slid from the cozy kitchen of her mother's womb. She arrived hollering.

From their places on the skin of the prairie front Hand and Shore stopped. In mythic time their work of feeding the land was done. Shore deftly leaped from her black rubber roots, and left them neatly beside the pile of small stones near the land's gate, slipped out of her hoodie folding it on top. Hand shrugged off the denim patchwork coveralls, giving it one last rub ... for luck.

"I wonder what they will name her?" both the siblings asked in perfect synchronicity.

From the golden burrow on trailer Those Who Watched heard the mother Hare say, "Hillary. We will name her Hillary Storm."

With that name said, Hand and Shore joined hand and paw and leaped one gigantic leap together --like the masterful Hares they are. And they were gone.

If you are lucky, and the land is truly blessed, evidence of Wild will be scattered like dried raisins here and there ... keep your eyes open. say thank you when you cross, and remember to listen more often to things than to beings.

That is all, there is no more.

The smell of fall

It was important to eat the raisin-sweet oatmeal while it was still warm. Shore peeked through the cozy kitchen window. She did not see Hand bounding from their burrow -- her brother rarely walked preferring to leap in sevens, just as Hares count in sevens to set the magic.

"The morning before is here..
The dreams have informed us, come near.
The clouds gather plainly."

The mostly quiet Shore opened the cozy kitchen window, lifted the lid from the freshly cooked meal, and blew ... 

"The wind does his magic.
The nose smells the time."

Hares, even blended ones such as Hand and Shore have keenly sensitive noses. The snug burrow and the jolly-tunes of a blessed dream were no match for the smell of fall and the promise of a full belly. With a shake and a shiver to wake himself Hand pulled on his denim coveralls. The patches of many kinds stitched in place by his own hand, and that of his mother were his favorite human Pretty. He rubbed each patch to give off the smell of their memory. The pleasure. The sadness. The time of sheer gladness.

To leap full as a Hare, Hand wore no rubber boots. To feed the land the Wild nature must touch land's skin full-footed. The Blended Hare, Hand, heard his sister's chanting. He responded ... 

"The count is seven, we blend with heaven.
"The morning meal awaits, my dear."

A sweet embrace between and a prayer of thanksgiving set the table for their morning meal. Two clean spoons was all they needed, scooping warm porridge of oatmeal and raisins right from the pot.

"There is plenty to do now our bellies be filled with a fine and fitting meal," Hand tipped his long ears in a courtly bow, grateful for his sister's talents and her company.

Shore rubbed her belly and kissed Hand on his tawny cheeks, "You are right. The clouds will fill most of this morning time, and clear by noon. Tomorrow at this time Mother and Father will cross paths."

"We'll be ready!" Hand leaped in place, grabbed the now empty pot and silverware. He would do the cleaning up.


One last bit.

The moon before Fully Ripe

The Blends

Shore woke first on the morning just before the truly ripe Harvest Moon. Dew was everywhere though few blades of prairie grass grew close-by for nibbling. It was times like these -- when the Wild in her nature could not be satisfied -- Shore was grateful for her human appetites.

There was an agreement made between the humans on the prairie land and "The Blends" as Shore's people were referred to. In exchange for a a place to keep a movable burrow of safety and shelter The Blends cared for the land bringing their brand of medicine-magic to the acreage that bordered a very busy asphalt highway. In many ways this prairie front was a Betwicks and Between world. Not fancy enough for the Mundane Mosts but neither was the Value of Wild applied with regularity, let alone reverence.

What is important to this story, Hillary Storm, is the fact Hand and Shore did live on the prairie front for this Harvest Moon.

Hillary Storm noticed the attention the storyteller paid to "did" live and "this" Harvest Moon, but, to help keep her promise about not interrupting, a soft but stout muzzle kept the girl from speaking. A promise is a promise.

So back to Shore's human appetite. The dew-moist morning meant it was cool and damp. Their burrow was built off the ground on a small trailer -- thanks to their father's human cleverness, practical nature, handy with tools and heavily influenced by their mother a fully wise Hare -- but, it was not artificially heated. To cook their food and warm their bodies The Blends shared the cozy and sufficiently equipped kitchen less than thirty steps from the trailered burrow. The arrangement worked exquisitely: Shore and her family had a key to unlock the kitchen door, used the cozy room when others did not, and were always neat and tidy about usage and cleanup.

While her brother Hand finished with his sleep and apparent zeal for a dream -- he was singing jolly tunes with his eyes shut tight-- Shore pulled a zippered hoodie over her nearly identical sandy colored self, slipped into a pair of black rubber boots and walked the twenty-eight steps to make a small pot of oatmeal. Since this was the morning prior to Feeding the Land, Share knew a little extra goodness would be just the thing to add. A handful of plump dried raisins sat in the pocket of her jacket.

With joy and the element of common magic the blended hare lifted the lid from the steaming oats, sprinkled the raisins one at a time and sang the song her father had taught them ... "Listen more often to things then to beings. Listen more often to things then to beings. Tis the Ancestors breath when the fire's voice is heard. Tis the Ancestors' breath in the voice of the water ..."


The moon has a pull on water, look here.

A full moon, a new tune

A hare at twice seven was more than full grown. A leveret, was one name for a hare child no more than a year old, by human reckoning. Age was something altogether different when wound with the blood and bones of a true human being, genes in the beings creates Blended Hares. Hand and Shore were examples of these Blended Hares, so by the time our story began they were seasoned with all the knowing of Wild but only 1/7th the savvy of Human. Buddhists say, "Humans only have something worth saying when they have celebrated 60 years." Ha! and Ho! so the story goes.

The Moon was fattening, and the Sun though brilliant was already softening in his heat. Fall was soon to take her place and it was this Fall Season when the siblings were charged with Feeding the land, this land. By the light of the Equal Moon, or Harvest Moon, their human habits would be tested.

Hillary Storm could not contain her question a moment longer, "Feed the land? Tests? Do we all have a test of our human habits, Dona? Whoops. Sorry." The storyteller paused, pulled her glasses down her nose just enough to look Hillary Storm directly in her mocha brown eyes. When she did this looking into your eyes thing any escape, or attempts at lying shriveled. The impulse to ask yet another question was not the reason for the near stern expression painting itself over the old woman's face. The deep lines of the storyteller's dried walnut face, the essence of walnut , molded into a face of Hillary Storm's worst nightmare. "You are not so young that you could not have waited for the story to feed you." It was really quite an accomplishment on her part to remain interested in her Dona's winding tales. The storyteller, was, in fact her grandmother. And it was the breaking of the spell-of-telling that caused the storyteller's face to crack stern. 

"Have I really blown it? Will you be able to go on?"

"You've not completely blown it. I will go on, but, from this point on you must promise not to interrupt until the last word is told. Can you do that Hillary Storm?" 

How many questions has Hillary Stormed asked? Can she keep her promise to not to interrupt until the last word?

Read here for the answers.

The Moon at Half Light

"Do you think," interrupted Hillary Storm knowing hers was a question needing consideration, "Hand and Shore know we are telling their story?" The storyteller's mouth was half open, or half shut ready for the next installment. Fittingly the Moon was at half light as the girl Hillary Storm stood to answer the kettle that was now fully at roar. Hillary Storm was well schooled at tea-making and took the liberty of choosing Nettles without asking. The changing season was tickling her throat, and the storyteller could always use a soothing tea to keep her voice in telling timbre. While the plump blue tea pot steeped Grandmother Nettle the storyteller came up with this, "A story is as personal as your pillow, Hillary Storm." Knowing how fond the girl was of a good position to her head for dreams, the answer fit the question. "Characters in a story have a life to live and a walk to walk. In the telling of their adventures and their quests it is almost certain a layer of their ... mm ... their soul knows something or someone is tracking."

The tea was giving off its own particular telling, this time the storyteller rose and reached for a teaspoon to dip into the luscious blackberry honey she favored. "I believe Hand and Shore know this story is being heard. But, I doubt they look over their shoulders for us." The day was well into the after mid sun time, and the Moon was in the sky above them. "Alight in the day the Moon's not far away. Kept only for nights a secret delight. Caught unaware 'tis the Moonshine at Noon that is special. Look there!" 

Let's learn a bit more about Hare.

"Listen more often to things than to beings ..."

Hand and Shore did harvest and store just enough beans and corn from the gardens on the prairie front. They were used to gleaning from the lot of cultivated rows, taking a little and leaving much. Their mixed heritage was finely tuned to listening more often to things ... like the wind when it gathered bluster like the stones and rocks that seeped sweet honey like the moon who appeared during the daylight hours unnoticed by most others.

Slipping in and between the purely human beings and those who, like themselves, were wrapped with Other, these children of Wild wore their skin loosely. When words or opinions wafted through the place near them their sensitive noses sorted, their whiskers unfurled. When Human machinery growled and cut the fragile grass barely sprouted after the long heat of summer, Shore pulled at her skin making herself smaller, protective of her very gentle soul. Hand on the other hand proceeded in the opposite direction, puffing life into the musculature of his powerful shoulders and rump. "He on the machinery is a bully and needs to be taught a lesson."

The man on the Machine wore a cap and cuffs over his ears as he drove the orange growling thing in ovals over the prairie's thin skin. Hypnotized by his power his eyes were not protected and though he would miss the sight of the giant Hare with powerful gloves brandishing the path, his dreams would remember and confusion would reign. Bruises to the ego leave funny stains. Shore wondered how her brother managed to get in and out of Human dreams unharmed.

The man would be gone from the prairie before the next Full Moon.

Hillary Storm has another question.

Your part in the whole of things

A Devon sort of pony from a Darwin point of view via Wikimedia

"For a boy no higher than the back of a horse Hand took things serious and knew what to be serious about." It's important to get the words right, Hillary Storm, confessed the storyteller. She, the storyteller, was persnickety about details when it came to words. Since this was a story meant especially for Hillary Storm she back tracked just a little.
"Hand was a boy no higher than the back of a horse, that was in fact, a pony."
"A very specific sort of pony!" Hillary Storm was not a girl to wait as you might already perceive even at this fresh point of our story.
"Yes, Hillary Storm, Hand was a boy no higher than the back of a Devonshire pony. So he was in fact a rather diminutive boy for someone nearly twice seven."

It was at this point, and then again at other points, when Hillary Storm imitated the face-making and posturing of the storyteller. She was joining in, and THAT is the most important part ... a part taken most seriously and sillerously. Story told and heard jiggled the words like beans being shaken on split reeds. Too heavy with water, the bean, as a story, will not keep through the winter. A moldy bean is not eatable for most humans wound with hare. So best to know your part in the whole of things...

Here is the next part.

Count by seven

She was quiet. Her brother was not. The tiny sister no bigger than a bird squirmed in her momma's belly. She would arrive hollering. The season was turning and doing it with great speed.

"Wind's already coming north. Before long he will blow deep and cold." Hand was a talker but he was good with his sightings, too. "We'll need to be sure beans are good and dry, and the corn picked before the rains come again." For a boy no higher than the back of a horse Hand took things serious and knew what to be serious about. Winter would be cold and wet, and without storing food it would be a hungry time as well.

Shore kept her eyes on the swift movement of clouds, shaking the baskets of split reeds to make the beans rattle. Still heavy with water, the beans made a thud instead of a splat. "Hope we get at least 'nother week of warm."

"Think'n we will, we got the charms in place, just right this time, Hand wrinkled his dark brown nose and jumped a foot in the air like the master hare he was. "Just right this time/no worries my dear/the feathers be set/and the jewels disappear/one,two,three,four ...Shore finished ...five,six,seven/" Beings such as these prairie children with the shimmer of hare winding tight and sure in their bones counted by seven to make life solid.

"To make life solid?"
"Yes, that's the way hare and human beings wrap their ways together. Now, if you interrupt me again, and so early on, the story will be ever ever more long."
"How much long er will the story be if I interrupt you again?"
"It might be a toenail or a boar's tusk long, but if we keep talking something worst than long will happen. And you know you won't be wanting that, Hillary Storm."
"You mean you'll forget and then get it wrong."
The storyteller nodded ... Hillary Storm nodded.

The story went on.