Flyway: Journal of Writing & Environment: 3 poems.

Crow, At The Naturalist Workshop, Hawk 101

Octopus on a Sea Dock

It floated out from a sea bucket
into the silver spilt water
of the sea dock we’d come to visit . . .

( published by Split Rock Review)

To the Three Ducks Flying Beneath the Dog Star

So little you know, wild-winged
and unshaken beneath a dog star,
half-grazing the pines, the bare winter . . .

(published by Kingsview & Co/Cascadia Publishing House)

Waking After Eighteen Hundred Dead

Prayer began early
before the sterling jays
dove, then clattered
at our window . . .

(published by The Colorado Sun)

To the Swallow This Spring at the State Park’s Nest Box

I own nothing of you

nor this leaf that shivers

into a half-bud above

the phlox and blue flax

that burrow with me . . .

(Published by Tiny Seed Journal)

On the Nature of Prose Poetry , Colorado Poets Center

In Ohio, they never touched ground, hovered just beyond, their hearts thin as dimes, until their slotted wings vibrated into whirr and whistle.  We believed this about hummingbirds: that death stalked their stillness, that to sit or sleep was as foreign to them as to the sharks that hulked beneath our primitive dreams of fish and flotsam.  But here the mountain hummingbirds, migrated by star or fireweed, hover momentarily, then spin into each other, territorial, sharp-needled, vanquishing each other from the sugar water I boil each time I come here.  And then they sit . . . 

Poems at the Colorado Poets Center : My mother going blind sees the world, Menarche, Van Gogh’s Saint-Rémy

Everywhere the light 
Draws us past stone,
Past the wood shutters the wind flings—
The world carved and delirious 
Beyond me, beyond you whom I see 
Half listening now
Amidst a concavity of iris, 
Of sea swirl, the poppy mad 
For such utter destination…

A Poet in the Biosphere: The disjunction of lichen

Of course I love the names: dog pelt, hooded bone, blistered rocktripe, shadow ruffle. What poet’s soul named them before their Latinate? Who thought to feed the wolf the poisoned one mixed with splintered glass, to tip the killing stone arrow with it, to name it wolf bane?…

Blizzard, and What Love Is, poems in Weber Studies

Already the hunters of spar and rut 
sag beneath this first weight of snow. They are lost.
All day I opened the blinds to see it come, the first storm of our prairied winter 
brooding over the wintered peaks 
like a thumb bruise. 
     Snow is clustering in the wallows 
     of the elk, in the wintering ground… 
from Blizzard