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First View of the River
162 wordsIf you walk up the hill, ducking beneath the hazelnut tree, its branches looped and willow-like, and you continue past the elderberry bush, the one with the bead-like berries that only the birds eat, you’ll find the part of the forest where the dirt is bare, where the ivy doesn’t grow, and you’ll continue on,…
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Queen’s Cup
303 wordsSee the mats of clematis running across the trees like mangled telephone wires; notice the dry dirt beneath the ivy, how gray it looks, how it is sickly compared to the rich, dark mountain soil that is gossamered with those little flecks from the edges of fir cones, and peppered with roots of things, pipsissewa…
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The God of the River
170 wordsThe river is opaque and fogged-over like sea glass unpierced by even the sharpest sunlight, its layers amorphous clouds of sediment and algae, almost brown, almost green, almost orange at the edges, slipping past you in the way of wind, catching on logs long buried, their arms reaching and rough and barnacled, their arthritic branches…
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Winter Gray
398 wordsYesterday was the winter solstice. Today, it feels like the sun didn’t even rise. There’s the residue of it, the low-seeped daylight behind the clouds, but there’s no warmth; no casting of light upon the pavement. Just a gray sky the color of wet stones. We live in the Pacific Northwest, but I find it…
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