Smidgens
The cougar is up high in a yellow pine, hidden. I only see his misplaced paw print, formed when the mud was thick last spring. Now, the trail has dried into cracks, wrinkles in the earth, his movement of the past solidified. He won’t… Continue Reading “The High Desert”
The forest is last to relinquish winter. Snow still sticking between its toes, it has thousands of shadows and shades, ways to hide from sunlight. On these days of last melt, snow packs down hard on the unexposed trail, creating a thin slice of… Continue Reading “Almost Spring On The Clackamas”
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… Continue Reading “Perennial”
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