Out into a winter night, with snow and silence and fright. What's beyond the torch's light? Rubber boots on crunching snow. Oh, how far we have to go. An hour's trudge until sun glow gathers on the horizon. Then walk 'til the day is done -- again abandoned by the sun. We'll set up camp in the dark, try to get flame from a spark, and dread when next we embark... a few hours down the line.
summer dusk: our world is flat & black, while sky is textured.
bunker on the beach
sends mixed messages about
trip tranquility.
back at the trailhead: no birds cry; no fish weep.
Riffing on Matsuo Bashō’s haiku:
"Departing spring! Birds crying; Tears in the eyes of fish."
a shallow stream, texture everchanging, glazes the forest floor.
the forest stays low, creeping up the valley: like advancing forces, but that hill isn't taken -- season after season.
