Amanda Pays
Bio
I am a horseback nomad in the Western US. I love writing poetry, prose and missives on my experiences living in the wilderness, aiming to provide a unique perspective on the natural world and advocating for all wild creatures and spaces.
Stories (4)
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The Wild and the Wistful
Umbra and Aura Far beyond the hum of cities, the grinding machinery and white noise of electricity is an innocent grassy meadow, neatly placed among a wide forest of pine, aspen and willow. The summer evening air hangs thick with the scent of wildflowers and earth. A sweeping violet sky signifies another ending day, another rotation of the planet, another medley of meadow events- from the badger making a den to the woodpecker seeking out wood grubs. In the distance, beyond the mountains' crisp silhouette there is a sliver of stark white breaking over the top: the moon. She rises over a pastel kingdom and her nocturnal subjects arise and stretch, eager for the night. To the human senses it would seem quiet, even lonesome save for the cooling breeze stirring through the pine boughs. But a closer listen would reveal the tiny scratchings of a deer mouse carrying wild strawberries back to her den or the nighthawks' cries interrupted by ethereal booms as they swoop and dive for thousands of insects gathering in thermal air pockets. If one pulled themselves further in they would observe the low commentary of a Great-horned Owl from somewhere deep in the trees as he stirs. There are thousands of critters scuttling and moving about as the dim light of day fades, but none quite so mesmerizing or alluring as the Barn Owl. Her body is a kaleidoscope of bronze and ivory speckled with grey stardust. Talons, sturdy and agile, make good work of catching prey. But her face, perhaps, is the most striking feature: a rounded heart of white gold like a goddess from some ancient tale as described by a wonder-struck poet bewildering the minds of mortal men. If human, I have no doubt, she would put all women to shame. But she is not human and should be celebrated that way.
By Amanda Pays4 years ago in Fiction
Feral
Do not seek me amongst Sterile walls and surfaces Where everyone is neatly dressed Don't imagine me with Soft, clean skin Clean fingernails A whiff of laundry detergent In a building with Exit signs Florescent lights Recycled air from a vent Hard echoing floors... . Think of me when you see A deer in pause At the sight of cars Or smell rabbitbrush After a hard rain . Meanwhile Somewhere, far away, inseparable from spirit and place My ribcage clatters With the sound of birds and insects Growing unruly with leafy tendrils The soles of my feet painted in dirt Feathers and sprigs of mint in my hair My heart chattering away About rain soaked buckskins, And calluses on my palms And the moon beaming down on my face at night My stomach grasps for the nourishment of roots and berries and wildflower meals My life is a commingling of pine needles in my dufflebag, forever finding seeds in pockets and beetles scuttling across my pillow. Each day filled with celebration, where learning the language of a lively, churning forest is as easy as reading a book. Where squatting in the woods is as normal as brushing teeth. There is no place in town for me where my dirty paws are welcome Their Exit signs spell 'Escape' My free and naturalized lifestyle is frowned upon by more than you'd think It's unwanted, uncommon and despite it being the way for hundreds of thousands of years, it holds no place within modern society. A society where birdsong is a nuisance. The rain is tiresome The insects are pests. Ancient, wild foods are only "edible" while chemicals marketed in stores are "food." Dirt is inconvenient- though, did we not all arise from the soil and rock we try so hard to scrub away?
By Amanda Pays4 years ago in Poets
