Fog walker

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?

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.