The Peril of Feral Pigs

Feral pigs in Hawaii don’t negotiate.  No they don’t.  They don’t compromise, they don’t mediate, they don’t find common ground, they don’t seek a Nobel Peace Prize, no they don’t.

What they do is squeal, grunt, mate, and most especially dig.  They dig…and dig…and dig.  And your sod or mine is their common ground.  “Dig we must!”  is their motto. They are genius at that.  They have evolved brilliantly.  They are nature’s rototiller.  They uproot grass searching for delectables; worms, grubs, tubers, etc. They can take a level area of grass and within minutes turn it into minor mountain range.  And if you add a bit of rain water, a quagmire, that makes the Okeefanokee Swamp look like a spring time puddle soon develops.

If humans could get these sod busters to plow in a uniformed manner, John Deere would soon be out of business. 

There are no “alpha” predators here, and I sure hope that no one brings them in…been there, done that. 

Can you imagine wolves in Waimea?  Mountain lions in Mountain View?  Me neither!   So it is left to humans to assume the role of mighty hunters.  And there are folks who do this deed with dogs and knife or guns.  It is a noble heritage.

And it seems like there are over a million pigs running helter-skelter on the island, though I’m not sure who is keeping count.   By comparison there are about 180,000 humans.  If the pigs ever got organized we’d be in big trouble.

So here in my backyard I am left to assume the role of alpha predator.  Trouble is, I’m more of a beta kinda guy.  All we are saying, is give peace a chance…

One non-murderous tactic suggested is to pee on the grass where they like to plow.  This doesn’t seem to work, even though I’ve processed many gallons in the cause.  On a brighter note my kidneys are in tip top condition.  I am nothing if I am not well hydrated!

So to the family of pigs that have moved in under my house, I wave the white flag and surrender to my new ungulate overlords. 

Looks like I will be keeping kosher from now on.

Pollination

Have you considered pollination?
Would you consider cross-pollinating with me?
I envisage you someone
Free and untamed,
A single solitary dandelion perhaps
Radiant and re-imaging,
Recapitulating,
The sure summer sun.

Growing strong and bold:
“Screw you,“ you say
With your toothy smile
To this large green lawn.
You are my dream mate in fact
The true Miracle Grow.

And later after spring has folded
Into summer,
If you have folded into me,
Stamen and pistol,
We will ascend as seeds on high
To spread our weedy beauty
‘Cross the wide wild world.

 

 

My Claim

I have lost my load
Is that so bad?
Like some trans-Pacific freighter
Dropping a container of rubber duckies
From a storm swept deck.
They will wash ashore
Someday down the line
And amuse us with the stories of their travels
How freely they have tossed about
In gyres of whales and pink plastic bottles
(These, the signatures of our times.)

So now you may have notices
That I stand up taller some
A freer man by fortune
Not stooped with such burdens and bundles
(That I took on somewhat naively…
Such foolish freight.)
And even the weigh
Of those more righteous loads
Which we carry on our way
Seems lighter and so much brighter now …
So mourn not for my labored loss
Oh men of Lloyd’s of London
(Of which I will not make a claim)
It’s the morning of a newer day
The storm has passed
And nothing seems the same.

Listening to the Rain

There is nothing I can do today
But listen to the rain
No need to force the issue much
So I will take what comes my way
And as it washes through my mind
It conjures up a dream
An ember from the night before
And of different day
Of someone who I made appear
Or maybe she was real?
I do recall and fondly so
That she was soft
And warm
And so
Playfully we fit and joined
Like puppies in a velvet pile
And ego-less we found our way
With nothing left except a smile.

 

Black Sand Beach

I saw you
From the black sand beach
Dancing to the sounds
Of the great Pacific orchestra.
You were naked,
So close to an ancestral form
Naked, standing upon a ragged rock
Dancing in a mermaid’s dream
Gifted with two swaying legs
Perched above the roiling surf
Swaying with the great gear rhythms
Bonding body
Land to sea
Linking the beauty of eternity.
I searched my heart
Now opened wide
But could not find a way
Sweet dream

To love you any more.

 

 

 

 

Warning! This is not a poem.

Barnyard Musings

I was walking across the yard this morning to look into the chicken coop. Something of a raucous nature was going on down there, which isn’t unusual.  Chickens seem to spend a lot of time gleefully marveling ova the laying of an egg, maybe: “How long have you been holding that one in, or my-my-my if you don’t mind I’d like to sit on that one later, or oh my aching ovaries…”  In any event, on the way across the grass I stepped in dog crap.  Nice and fresh too, that tarry conglomerate consistency, with the stickiness of super glue (super poo?) 

Fortunately, I was wearing my barn boots, so I didn’t get any on the cuff of my pants.  Unfortunately, I was wearing my barn boots, which have treads deeper than many canyons in Arizona.  So for the next few minutes I was doing that dance, you know the doggie shuffle; dragging my foot through the tall grass, looking for a puddle to dissolve some of this sh*t, a stick perhaps to scrape (notice the word crap is in the word scrape?)  it from between the labyrinth of cracks and crevasses, while at the same time hopping on one foot, while at the same time trying not to step on the same land mine again.  Been there?

I must mention that this is not the first time recently, for me to have this special event.  The last two occasions were the moment or two just before I entered a vehicle.  Once the door was shut with windows up, all occupants got the pleasure of sharing the olfactory by-products of the lower gut of a canine, which might have originally been dog kibble, plus a thousand and one other edibles available at ground level.  Let me just remind you that this is a farm…lots of interesting objectionable objects on the ground and dog-reachable.  Some real taste sensations…  And have you noticed that dogs are not all that discriminating? No, not at all.  So apologetically out of the car I go and now I get a chance to do the dog-do shuffle by the roadside, to the amused pity of most ever passer-by.  We all know what that scene looks like, right up there with drunks puking in the bushes and little boys peeing onto the rear wheel hubcaps.  I swear I saw a couple slow down to get a better look, camera in hand.  I fear a posting on YouTube is next.

But alas, boot passably clean, I found my way to the chicken coop to check out the hens and see what the ruckus is all about.  We worry about the potential of a Mongoose, those sly opportunistic devils.  They too are willing to wade through a fair amount of excrement to visit the chickens, and snatch an egg or maybe a hen…

And then to my surprise, I discovered two Mourning Doves caught by their own devices in the empty section of the last coop.  Maybe they were enticed by the chance to fill their bills with a bit of chicken scratch?  I, of the prefrontal lobe, have determined that they got in through the wire mesh, but in panic, were flying from one end to the other, helter-skelter crashing and freaking out even further, then flying and crashing again.  Not a good strategy for escape. First dove to second dove: “ok, that didn’t work…ok, that didn’t work, ok…”  But eventually, befuddled and exhausted, they dropped to the coop floor, and there within minutes, simply walked over to the wire mesh wall, stepped through, and discover freedom from this claustrophobic cage.  Duh!

So am I witnessing a moment of avian Zen, some sort of dove dharma?  Maybe, maybe it’s that easy.  Maybe we all should stop thrashing about and avoid the panic, and find our freedom?  Or at least watch where we fly, or step.

Duh!

Fini