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The Time of the Crows
174 wordsIt is the time of the crows, and, look, there they are, like dark rocks in a stream, the sky catching around them in thin blue light, their bellies glinting off streetlights, and car windows, the sunset sickly pink in front of them, the scaffolds of copper and steel somehow less smooth than bark, and…
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Yellow Light
131 wordsA winter evening in the yellow light, and it’s the kind of dusk where the sky feels low, like it is pressing against us, and the Douglas firs are painting heavy circles, braided with the smell of woodfire smoke from someone’s chimney,and moss and mushrooms and old clay soil saturated with rain. And we climb…
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Painting the Sky
81 wordsI am here beneath the rust, painting the soft skies with the tips of my fingers, wedged between river and hill, watching through maple leaves as thin as insect wings, the stained glass through which the wind dries, ochre and purple, behind the cloudlight, and it speaks to me in wildfire smoke and birdsong, the…
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Thorns
165 wordsI walk down to the sand on a deer trail (or perhaps a human one) lined with a wall of blackberry bushes, snagged with spider-webs that hold like glue onto shore pine needles, and escaped petals of some neighbor’s night-blooming jasmine, and there’s a single swath of gray construction matting, frayed at the edges, and…
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