The alluring new sequel to Dances With Wolves, but with no annoying Kevin Costner anywhere within sight. Found Summer Photos returns on Memorial Day weekend, May 23, 2015. In the meantime, tighten up that rake–we’ve got leaves to clean up.
The more I blog, the more I want to blog. I stumbled across two different articles raving about the complete fantastic-ness of Pittsburgh–which actually happens pretty regularly. For the record: I live in a small university town out in the woods but still near enough to get into “The Burgh,” but I’m in love with the city. I feel fortunate that I got to live there for 3 years when I was in my 20s, –long enough to learn my way around, and to gain a clearer understanding and appreciation of the forces that were being marshaled even then, that would lead to the surge in energy and vitality of the present day. So, from now on, when I read something great about my favorite city, I pass it along to you. And by all means, get yourself over for a visit.
There are many ways in which Pittsburgh is not like other cities — let’s start with the grand entrance. Whether you’re coming in from the Pennsylvania Turnpike and through the Squirrel Hill Tunnel, or shooting under Mount Washington on their way in from the airport, you can’t help but notice: Here is a city with a lot going on in the looks department.
The setting, along those famous three rivers (Ohio, Allegheny, Monongahela) at the foot of those dramatic hills, is pretty great. That impressive skyline is a constant reminder of a time when Pittsburgh was one of the world’s most important industrial capitals….
Morning Portrait, 8800′
Strong, slight sundressed girl, all sinew, all arms and legs,
steps from the den of cool last night, sweat and woodsmoke,
dawnlit, shoeless, wincing into sub-alpine August;
She squints, fidgits, runs fingers through thick twists,
tangles of gold from straw and
squares rope over bone shoulders towards the east.
She is twenty-three years old, a woman rubbing sleep from her eyes,
calming morning medusa-strands with a plain ragged ribbon.
She wears freckles, no paint:
No hips to speak of, can’t do without a belt;
a thumb to forefinger encircles her wrist,
you can read her collarbone from a mile off.
Yet those shoulders lugged sixty pounds,
twig figure legs, quick on the slopes,
laughed at switchbacks, through scratching, fragrant sagebrush,
gold splash mules ears, lodgepole, aspen,
and rock to get up here.
She can work
the red handled pump
with one slim arm,
strength is all angles.
she bends to caress blue columbine,
straightens, shuffles, wrinkles toes in dirt and pebbles.
bats an eyelash, strikes a blue tip on the door jamb,
sweeping arc to spark to flame,
a hand cuppped against the breeze,
lights her cigarette.
Still a work in progress, I did about 17 drafts of this back in the day, with at least one more to come. Probably many more.