Trail topography can be a strange combination of nature and newness. This photo is a rotated pic of a footbridge crossing the Skipanon River. The bridge’s laser-precise wooden planks and glossy machinist bolts contrasts what lies outside the frame. Lush, wild, rain forest. Only the sun’s shadows give clue to a nature that lies beyond.
Upon mountain trails, the hiker might see signs of an old sheep herder, the craftsperson, who had built a hut of fallen trees in a meadow. It now stands abandoned upon bare fields of wild green.
Spring blooms still hold their heads, shyly, with memories of teeth from a flock who no longer adhere to a seasonal schedule.
A trickle sounds through the open space, a small creek, exposing the oldest glacier waters, forming rivulets upon its canvas.
Higher upon the mountain, rocks and caverns, wake up from under ice, hear the song of the sun for the first time, rough is the sculpture of these old children.
The hiker, still following the trail, sees the bare mountain as it really is, then later, by memory, paints the mountain.
Fields unafraid. Snow with its best face on.
(Photo: Black Butte from Three Fingered Jack)
Fort To Sea Trail, Oregon, March 2018.
Where the forest meets the ocean, a mix of environment occurs. I call this the liminal lands, an in between, where you can witness movement, a to and fro, an agreement between sea and land. This photo is a close-up of a small pond that is part fresh […]
This south wind
Brings a warmth
Tickling the side
Waiting for the fluster
Of petals who fall
The quickest, earliest
Sticking to shoes
Tracked into the kitchen
“I meant to tell [you]
How I longed
For just this single time”
Late summer petals
Dried, lightened wishes
Caught in kitchen corners
With lone coffee beans
With runaway grains
Who stick to shoes
Tracked out, where
The north wind
Tickles the sides
Of oaks and beech
“To wander—now—is my repose”
Flowers like drunken ladies, brazen young daisies, mouths full of desperate drink, mistake their first kiss for a one-night stand, a near miss.
Still held high by our admiring eye, ‘quisitive camera is not too shy, we share a photo of their distress, for a thousand or so views, no less.
Even though it’s a trick of mirrors, we know the sun eventually reappears. Our gaze, tense upon the fragile reflections of Narcissus, for it is blossom’s desire we yearn to witness.
It rolls and rumbles out of you
Like you don’t understand the fuss
But you do, ‘cause you feel the buzz
For it holds your curves and your nerves
Connects you to the low frequency
Keeping you off the high wire
And that damned freaky ass moon
Tells it like it is,
Especially when what it is
Is hard to tell
Holds you motionless while you’re moving
Cries at movies, laughs at crying
It’s a hum that extends out to your fingers
It’s that touch you have that lingers
Oh, don’t get it wrong it can sing a bad song
Blurts at the wrong moment
Flirts with the wrong moment
Wears a queer color of eyeshadow
Can even be downright shallow
It’s that smudge you’re marked with
Can even throw a big, juicy, fat fit
But it’ll dig down with you for the long term, the big view
“If I were you, you’d be me
We’re made for each other, you see”
It’s in your pocket like lint
You had better get used to it
So, give it all the love you’ve got
For it’s in the shape of you, is it not?