Woman Midwest-style

The river runs deep with forbidden secrets, leery of intrusion to a trusted few. Swirling past knowledge held sacred, the current utters in whisper to protect its truth. Mindful of nature's fruitful song, winged creature glides gracefully midst times reminiscent. All Mother's lore upon renaissance greeted; championship welcome, rejoicing flourishes to noble tune. The orb's brilliant glow sifts through the gaiety; nocturnal proclamation sings cheery note. With the wilderness' keepsake of promise, the river flows timeless. Embracing dawn's iridescent crystal hues -- held close, breathless for remembrance to savor. The beckoning river sparkles slivered images to crest anticipation, entices delightful with adventure to possess for the winged glider its sole crusader. by Patricia Joy-Frommer,  1990 published "Poetic Voices of America" Sparrowgrass collection, 1992

The eyes of the Peregrine will plainly see; she tis truly a paragon of the falcon tiercel; for all knows it's a victory dive in tumultuous pursuit; therefore, neither is prey,  synchronization innate. Glorious speed conquers the wind; life's course only its eyes can see. Masters of freedom's wing with sinewed talons of steel - - survival a constant test of nature's will to be free. Purest strength, the highest ideal; its instinct for freedom with mate; and free, the falcons will always truly be.  by Trish Frommer- Joy  1993    http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/birds/peregrine-falcon/

marina in ice    My husband and I returned from deer hunting in the Ozarks.  We'd gone the day after Christmas.      As I grew up it was considered sacreligious to hunt on Christmas Day.  But I don't believe there should be that stigma.  And as a young girl, I sure didn't know any better one way or another.  My grandpa would take me and my cousins rabbit or squirrel hunting during the holiday school break if there wasn't two feet of snow to trudge thru.      We didn't have waterproof boots kids have now.  Oh yeah, we had the ol' galoshes style.  My feet stayed dry for maybe an hour till I tromped into a snowbank up to my knees, then dry tootsies was a lost cause.  One year Grandpa had 4 kids in tow, racing from brush pile to weed patch to scare out any rabbits.  So why deny kids that time with grandpa just to not hunt on Christmas just to adhere to such a silly rule?  I'm sure the pioneers of the Midwest left the comfort of the homefire to face