Late autumn forest


Late autumn forest yellow gold leaves thin silver branches drawing white semi-light into crawling root darkness-not-darkness waiting-not-waiting for spring winter nothing dead nothing reborn tomorrow wind bent rattled touched hands forehead pressed into something TREE not solemn wise divine bone blood organ chakra signals to-from minds all hidden  born   moved    returned     hidden      born       moved        returned       




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This weekend, I started writing. Agnes said, “Let’s go.” We went. Paddled. Pitched the tent. Decided to sleep under the stars. Heard loons, owls and coyotes. Thought we could more-or-less spend the rest of our life in that moment. Got up early and paddled back. Saw some loons. Made it home in time for the protest.


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Crow’s wings

Eagle has scattered

black feathers and scraped bones

all along the trail.


Last week she waited

on a low branch, lifted, dropped

Crow’s wings so I’d know.


Standing still. Wet snow

falling on my shoulders

like soft footsteps.


I’m learning to speak

with breath. Near silent. Somewhere

between wind,  something else


and human being.