we climb to gaze at the stream’s
effortless descent
power plant plumes
dead broomsedge hissing
in the ridgetop wind
getting high
all the green feathers
of fern and moss
foggy solstice
the “cosmic” flavor of the cloud
from her vape
dying old-growth
the pristine faces
of artist’s conks
mushroomier now
the chainsawed end of a hemlock
among acorns
taking root
the retriever’s snout
burial tree
my 100,000 miles of veins
high winds
a falling branch crashes
my party of one
The sun is different here—
distant, keeps odd hours. A foreigner, regarded with a mixture of bemused tolerance and mistrust.
