The natural terrain features were stunted by the lack of erosion and if time were rushed forward they would tower and perhaps take on an awesome name and be recognizable to the majority and be talked about in the major print journals of our time.
John Ray Butte is a short, stumpy looking lighthouse on the prairie for prehistorics and post-Columbian travelers, explorers and Comanchero traders as they traversed the vast southern Plains, maybe toward Tecovas Creek in the west and perhaps from the Quitique Mountains in the southeast, bringing slaves, and other important wares of the time. If I were seeking the gold of Eldorado I could navigate these Plains easily and by line of sight and I would use the Butte as well, trade my slaves, guns, hemp and be on my way. The architecture of the landscape and the remnants of its mythologies are hidden in the paradox of its vast openness; much is there and even more is hidden. I can pick and chose as Nature does, adding here and there and even subtracting some elements for effect. I may even fabricate names and places occasionally to amuse the passerby, bristle their epidermis and maybe just irritate the shit out of them. The mytho-poetics are mine to juggle and redefine at my convenience, which, when compared to the Alibates Lightning story, this one is vastly different. Nature rearranged the furniture. I did not.
Buttes are smaller than mesas, plateaus and tables and are “conspicuously isolated” for the benefit of some wayward traveler, comfortable proof that eyesight is one of our most valuable assets, and great deceivers. But perhaps the buttes were once tables and the mesas were once dissected plateaus at the conveniences of time and gravity. Who knows?
That day it was a butte and I was sitting alone with my Lucky Labrador across a great stretch of highway from this non-loquatious geographical place name waiting for it to speak, waiting for her to show me hers, or ultimately for the Old Man time to say something the pre-arranged aesthetic patterns of my mind would recognize and accept as art. We topped the same knoll and parked next to a barbed wire fence, nearly scratching the paint on the ship and were immediately befriended by two unlikely allies, infant Western Kingbird twins. The downed window, quietly powered, released the dog’s hot vaporous breath to the atmosphere and in keeping with St. John’s tradition, was as subtle as a southern Plains breeze. He stood up once, turned and shook the car as he moved then settled and watched, bubbling with hidden emotion. He lowered his head and raised his chin in curiosity.
Tyrranus verticalis Gemini...
An interesting name for this very aggressive ornithi couple; they attack hawks in their own defense and weather the wicked Panhandle climate with a persistence that rivals my own tenacity for the shot. A black band stretches across their eyes, an Avian Lone Ranger, chest bright yellow missing only the angular type font of a superhero. They nest on trees and in bushes and when none exist, like here in the central Panhandle, they dwell on tops of poles and transformers. Still, they are continuously exposed to the rude elements of nature but they can see and attack a small insect from hundreds of feet away. One wonders if they can pick and chose their own diet as they shop, or browse the air as they fly. Someone told me that they select mates by flying upward to 60 feet and threaten to crash into the prairie by swirling downward at break neck speed, something I would definitely consider when trying to attract a certain femme. The twins sat, eyes closed, hidden behind their mask and soothed by their recent survival of a ruthless squall that swept across the plains with crashing thunder, hammering rain and terrible wind in an ironic twist that plays out day by day. Where would they stay to survive? Why would they have to stay anywhere? We think of a massive thunderstorm as something to get away from and they must only think of another day. Or do they even think? I know they were too tired to flutter away and leave me to the Old Man’s ridicule so I grabbed the D100 and started shooting away, one close, another zoomed out and one did fly away but the other just sat and in some sort of second guess the flighty one returned and I shot them again and again. The other turned, posed, ruffled its feathers and even stepped over the fence barb to reveal the nuisance.
I once saw a Western Kingbird road kill and before I actually recognized it another, maybe its partner, swooped down in my path and retrieved the dead body with its feet and flew off the roadway, maybe thinking there was something to save. Are they monogamous? They obviously have emotions and value their brethren or lovers or partners. So they must think and feel as we do and care deeply for their companions when the danger is real. These allies today sat, eyes closed, opening only occasionally as the Black giant sat drooling in reserve. My wife and I were sitting in the Starbucks on the square in Santa Fe and I thought I noticed a painting on the wall; a pair of Western Kingbirds sitting on a barbed wire fence. I wondered if the artist saw my photograph. Then I realized: I was looking into a mirror.
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