There are volcanoes here, dead they say but dreaming. Remembering the belching fire of the past, like the ruptured blood of the earth, flowing, cooling, scaring and baking star garnets into the heated press. They sleep now, all of them, but their mother Yellowstone murmurs far beyond the jagged boundary Read more…
The leaves of fall are fallen, the tamarack’s needles are nearly all gone, the colors of the world fading to dark greens, blues, tans and greys. Winter is nigh upon us, even the air smells like the flat fluff of snow to come. The threshold of another winter, the dying Read more…
There’s a storm coming, slowly, in shouting whispers that shake the dead needles from the fire scorched trees, dripping them onto the moon colored dust that replaces the loam as carpet on this forest’s floor. A fire burned across this side of the mountain a few months back, smoldering its Read more…