Driving
up the hill
towards the cabin
taking stock of our visit so far
one chipmunk
no deer
no bear
(taxidermied animals don’t count)
Cresting
the hill
two does stood
in the middle of the road
paused, then
continued over the fence to join a third
That night
in the rain
we sat in rockers
on the porch
listening. simple pleasures shared.
Out on the prairie and down east (along the coast) there are wild ponies, occasionally one sees a sign – DO NOT FEED I took a risk, guided my car roadside, and searched remnants of lunch for the saved afternoon snack Much larger than I imagined I wondered, would he charge, bolt, or bite –…
Sticky notes that framed my computer fill the waste basket – one by one – like fall’s last leaves dropping from trees (the business year is winding down) Out back little jenny-wren has taken up residence under the patio table, darting for cover when we open the door well sited near the feeder, yet nearly…
Her worn collar long faded and stained used to be hot summer pink with lime-colored palm trees dancing ‘round Set against a pale yellow-white coat – she might as well have been wearing diamonds Later came the grass and mud, chocolate (swiped pastry) and a few garden remnants… over time each stain became an embedded…
At first a few leaves lay scattered on the ground but by Wednesday whole yards were covered Lawns returned to green only when weekend gardeners shredded and swept the interlopers It is early August, yet the Tulip Poplar doesn’t care Years ago, its broad yellow leaf intrigued me, as reaching between the Manual of Woody…
Dusk along the lane only foundations remained we traced them with our feet stumbling occasionally I stood inside one he – just outside the one next door for one moment music lingered on the warm humid breeze in September of 1941 there was no carnage The old runway evoked pre-dawn mornings the palpable drone of…
Earth so dry Beginning to relinquish hold on a landscape slowly losing the struggle to dig deep enough for life sustaining moisture – sprinklers small comfort. Into each heated night, cicadas loose a relentless, high-pitched plea – no relief and dawn arrives – gray as the day before. And yet – yet the strawberry pot…