Doe Creek out of its banks,
in the pasture.

It is traditional Spring storm season
in Oklahoma.
Besides a bunch of tornadoes
in the west a few days ago,
our neighbors a few miles to the north
had eight inches of rain
in a couple of hours
night before last.
Last night,
tornadoes formed northwest of us
then another storm blew in
from the northwest
(very rare)
and dumped 1.5 inches of rain.
We’ve had 5.5 inches in three days.
Doe Creek is everywhere
in the pastures,
which is a delight to see
since last spring
there were no rains
and we suffered through
historic high temperatures
and a devastating drought.
I love to see the water
standing in great impromptu ponds
slowly settling back into soil.
The morning dawns clear and bright,
breezy and humid.
The birds are singing,
feasting from the soppy ground.
It’s a beautiful day.

Sadly though,
the wind ripped the tipi
and it fell—
for the second Spring.
We have been enjoying
the way light disperses beautifully
in the soaring reach of canvas and tall, straight poles;
the way it glows when there’s a fire inside.
Recently,
a group of folk musicians
sitting inside next to the fire
played music into the night.
Just last weekend,
three young people
spent their first night in a tipi,
sleeping through rain and thunder,
then joining their parents
in the hermitage
just before dawn.
The tipi is a fine dwelling
that allows us to be in relationship with
rather than walled out of
nature.
I’m not sure Native Americans
who used this part of the prairie
as hunting grounds
ever put up tents here
in tornado alley
in the Spring.
I’m sure if they did
they were much handier
at putting them up
and taking them down
quickly.
We have once again
picked up the pieces,
knowing we have damage to access
(only two poles broke this time,
but the canvas is torn badly)
decisions to make,
more to learn.
Like others who are trying to learn
how to live sustainably,
so that all may thrive,
we acknowledge
it is just that—a learning process—
and, despite heart-breaking moments,
worth the effort.

Fallen Tipi