If you followed the hidden trail next to the beach you would find the derelict steel mill: young alder rose beside brick chimneys, an old maple had taken root inside the concrete walls—we would lie on its mossy branches and read or sleep—crumbling concrete surrounded a wicked ruin of bad graffiti and stubborn vines.
The waves nearby came through the trees in a diluted hiss echoing around the walls in airy pulses—you could forget and think it only the wind.
A bulldozed ramp of earth carves through the trees to a leveled field. Freshly landscaped grass grows in mowed paths. Bits of ruin poke out of the soil—faded spray paint mimics cartoon figures: dilapidated monuments without honor—nothing worth remembering.
Waking to write, and watch Jack Frost work his winter touch.
In Nature we see there is no story, that every legend, fable, myth is desperate.
Sometimes I wake up hopeful in the morning.
My people call...
Flashcards. New schema for new territory.
After the musk and scent of sweat and desperate breath...
Somedays you either laugh or cry unintentionally.
The lull of Salish swaying below me.
I live in a beautiful little corner on the blue planet.