Time to extinguish a few crises

So, yesterday's good news is that I had enough sense to begin wearing a COVID-19 face mask while outside for any period of time in the smoke-filled air of east-central Minnesota, such as when walking the dogs. We all know the bad news, that we're setting Minnesota records for bad air quality from forest fires to our north and others to our west. If face masks are a means to help keep teeny, tiny virus particles out of my airways, they should also work to reduce inhalation of smoke and/or fine particles (PM 2.5).

this time last summer, spotted horsemint was more abundant

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, the drought continues; the current administration continues to avoid the implications of not suspending or revoking the permits allowing  construction to continue on Enbridge's new Line 3 tar sands transport pipe; folks are beginning to suffer whiplash from "adjustments" to indoor mask "guidelines" related to the delta variant of COVID; and, in a much lesser vein, I became thoroughly embarrassed to learn that Minnesota's sharp-tailed grouse range extends much further east and south than I ever knew. (I know about the Northcentral zone and have almost since I moved to Minnesota. Somehow, the East-central zone has stayed off my radar screen until this morning.)

It's no doubt timely for information affecting hunters and hunting seasons to begin to be released by the Department of Natural Resources in late July, since Sunday, two days from now is Lughnasadh, the beginning of Gaelic harvest time in the Druid Way. As we continue toward autumn, may the wildfires and their smoke be contained and extinguished; may all of US who can safely do so get vaccinated, extinguishing the COVID virus; and may the state and/or federal governments extinguish the Line 3 permits and honor the treaties which Line 3's construction fails to honor.

Tiger Mask Ritual

By Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

When you put on the mask the thunder starts.

Through the nostril’s orange you can smell

the far hope of rain. Up in the Nilgiris,

glisten of eucalyptus, drip of pine, spiders tumbling

from their silver webs.

The mask is raw and red as bark against your facebones. 

You finger the stripes ridged like weals

out of your childhood. A wind is rising

in the north, a scarlet light

like a fire in the sky.

When you look through the eyeholes it is like falling.

Night gauzes you in black. You are blind

as in the beginning of the world. Sniff. Seek the moon.

After a while you will know

that creased musky smell is rising

from your skin.

Once you locate the ears the drums begin.

Your fur stiffens. A roar from the distant left,

like monsoon water. You swivel your sightless head.

Under your sheathed paw

the ground shifts wet.

What is that small wild sound

sheltering in your skull

against the circle that always closes in

just before dawn?

Note

The poem refers to a ritual performed by some Rajasthani hill tribes to ensure

           rain and a good harvest.

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