POEM: Visitors

Don’t tell me stories about screaming trees.
I’ve heard them in the forest after dark.

Strange boats landed on the shore from vast seas,
carrying saws to make a proper park
of old growth lands that lay beyond the known
and sweep up the sun-dappled leaf litter,
sowing where they’d reaped & reaping what they’d sown,
silencing the chitter of bird and critter.

Rearranging, like bedroom furnishings,
the space of nature’s grand, endless chaos.
Building fences, trapping, and clipping wings.
They spay and spray and pray, and scrape the moss.

The boats, long since rotted, landed near here
between that Taco Bell and the concrete pier.

POEM: Traveling Companion

On mountain trails, the sound of running water
— burbling or rushing —
is a stalwart companion.

Even the rushing water, rushes lazily,
having surrendered to gravity.

Stagnation requiring an act of might —
a Herculean struggle against the flow —
that no drop can muster.

Should an unfortunate splash
spray a drop into a rocky pool,
even then,
time will insist it give itself to condensation.

All paths lead to the sea,
but no two paths are the same.

DAILY PHOTO: Yellow Water Crowfoot

Taken in April of 2012 at Yellow River Park