A DRIVE IN THE JURA MOUNTAINS
It is a gray Saturday, hardly a picture postcard kind of day. We decide to ignore the weather and venture forth. Behind us are the Alps and Lac Leman; ahead of us rise the Jura.
layers of mountainsfused with mist…
the cloud peaks
Our destination—nowhere in particular.
flower splashesspilling out of windows
filling the gardens
stone houses,their crumbling walls patched
Jumping a hundred years we pass tractors and binding machines. Twentieth century noises blending with timeless rural sounds: cows with clanging bells munching grass, raucous crows brazenly flapping after a tractor. And everywhere smells punctuating what we see and hear.
from an open barnthe odor of hay and manure
and climbing roses
We pass through a winter sports town. Ski runs, now grassy slopes, the skating rink a meadow wild with flowers and colored banners announcing the kermesse(village fair).
with easy swiftnesssummer tourists
walk the ski runs
We stop by a thick grove of beech trees.
looking for sky,seeing only mossy trunks
and wild ivy
the seeping dampnesssitting on wet rocks…
the hot coffee
Voices….another family in the woods.
gathering berries,listening to the plink, plink,
We start back but are soon slowed.
plot, plop on the road…cars follow the cow trail
to the milking barn
Late afternoon, the mist fading, outlines appear. The glue-grayness gives way to the greens and gold of the wheat and corn fields checker boarding the hills. Our perseverance is rewarded by a weak sun.clearing skies
summer comes dribbling
Modern Haiku, Vv, No. 3, 1974