I wish I could dance in this wind. But its heat wilts me, keeps a dull, slight fever about my skin. I feel it drags everything into a blur, the flora, the fauna, the restless water, the dry grass. There’s so many separate lawns being watered in the midst of this drought.
I await the first flirt of coolness, a gift from the ocean, when the wind tugs at my hand and compassion soothes the baked streets, the overdone frenzy.
We think the river a wild beast, amok, tilling a path in soil.
But it’s us—in another form, searching for a mate who can only be made in our own image.
We slow the stream, to a reservoir’s pulse, in hope to drink reflections—until the end of our days.
Yet, days are a slight of hand, manmade lakes, built, so we can sing to the photogenic current.
Stilled, captured in a portrait
Touched, retouched, retold
Little Crater Lake, July 2018
A double blue reflection. The cobalt of the lake with its graveyard of dead trees lying on the bottom. One recent death half-floats in purgatory. And the deep blue of the sky, foregrounded by a living green forest. Both blues framed by ancient volcanic formations. All is alive, even death.
More photos here.
Alien Intruder or just the shadow of a nerd?
Burnt Lake, Oregon, September 2017
(The Square Peg)
