A Symmetrical — Elan Mudrow Photography

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.

via A Symmetrical — Elan Mudrow Photography


Cascade Soul

My Spirit

is a path built in the Cascades. Tectonic plates. It adheres to a dream where I’ve floated above the trail, without pain, not worrying about the forest. The seasons stilled and the river is silent. In this sleep, my imagined body feels like it’s falling through my bed. I abruptly wake up.


My Body

is an old child’s bicycle. Tubeless tires. The back tire had a gash chewed out of it, five inches long, causing me to bump along. Then, it refused to turn, sticking in place while I was riding a couple of feet off the ground. Made a full stop and I fell. During this life, my imagined spirit feels like it’s falling through the earth. I abruptly wake up.

The Artist

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)

Liminal Lands — Elan Mudrow Photography

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 […]

via Liminal Lands — Elan Mudrow Photography

To Wander

This south wind

Brings a warmth

Tickling the side

Of rhododendrons

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”



Long-stemmed daffodils, whose faces are flushed by a cold spring storm, act as if their lover, the sun, has left too early and is done.

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

It says,

“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?



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