dancing flames

a ruby-throated hummingbird here and gone

a ruby-throated hummingbird here and gone

night barn

a field sparrow singing
in his sleep

a red squirrel raging  above the grave

almost touching  the whippoorwill

fear spiralling  in my hand

This is what happens as soon as I stop walking, my daily habit: I become habitat.

when did the back of my hand  turn strange?

this dream of endless mountains

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?

spring azure
with my cellphone camera
stalking the sky