fog walker the millipede’s carpet of legs
In black cherry time
This is what happens as soon as I stop walking, my daily habit: I become habitat.
Why is it this year that the familiar warbler songs sound like dripping blood or fabric being torn?
What May Come
Where did it come from, this premonition that someday I will be parted from my head?
Train following the river; snowflakes following the train.
There’s no denying the appeal of dead trees: they look more human.
In a distant field, a white house glows like a sail in the late-March sun.
The feeling that something is about to happen, out here where nothing ever happens…
Strolling down the Allegheny Front on an old rail bed. A haibun.
Visiting Dad’s grave yesterday, I had a strong sense of his absence amid the fundamental indifference of nature.
When I stand up, I see the large coyote that’s been watching me—who knows for how long—from 50 feet away.
If I were a tree, head-down in the earth, I’d stretch one toe into the clouds.