top of page

i travelled along with my cottonweed and compass

wand in hand, breathing in the ever-familiar scent of pollen blown along like invisible cotton-mills,


the horse of inevitability, the old-time mailman, his tin-style flat-head shotgun,


the grim determination of mountains against the thunder of midday,


the great horned owl, cresting peaks and edging near a dark furred house on a hillside,


light and breezy as the great sky above.

bottom of page