Caught out in the rain on a spontaneous morning walk. On waking I couldn’t resist the dark clouds and chanting trees. The lighting is blue and electric gold - the color of water and autumn. Green leaves shine in the wet, my hair dangles in soggy curls that I sweep away or look through. My wool sweater is so old that it doesn’t itch on my skin: from Denmark, a dear friend gave it to me, told me a woman who sheered her own sheep had dyed it with vegetable pigments.
I recite botanical names as I pass ceders, bracken, swollen mushrooms, salal. Maple leaves lying everywhere like derelict flags or graceful swans come to rest.
Down the trail is a pile of railroad ties, broken black and jagged spears gathered in a heap.
I run home, sprinting fron shelter to shelter.
I want to paint, draw and write all at the same time, or perhaps just read with spiced tea and feel the day in its timeless poise.
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.