What if we took a moment to pray for snow Let’s call it Salmon Weather and let’s stop Calling it a nuisance or an inconvenience Let’s pray to the snow as if it is a gift Not for recreation But of re-creation Let’s not worry the cold, here, in our warm house Let’s...

A cider wind teases melancholy memory. Slanted light brushes the horizon gray. Shadows peer, and crawl, and rise. An embracing maple colonnade invites. Earthen musk hovers. Brittle stalks chaff and scream, restless. Orange specks punch the landscape, soon to be leering. Metal air stills. The whisper of goodbye returns Echoes. Cling. And let go. Fleeced light voyages across...

The air is cool and a breeze pushes from the north, the depth of blue clouds pierces my attention between flashes of light. Moisture lingers heavy and refreshing as the storm drags across bare mountain peaks just beyond our reach.  One can almost hear the grass calling for rain, a song carried quietly...

Peeking to preen beneath water gleam to glitter under the amber spell-bound, serene sunlight. Swiftly swimming so their scales sparkle of endless crimson, teal, gray, olive. Whisks through foreign lands, crossing peaks, icy slopes. Consistently wavering in the water. Content and unknowingly holding us so that our breathes hold to admire pearly eyes, leopard fins, amber gills even as they...

for Lauren Raven at canyon rim fast by talon to stone quietly casts its body upon torrents of wind  cottonwood banked below anchored to soil by root drifts a veil of seed over gale of riverflow and all along the ridge the feeling of a question surrendered  and all along the water the feeling of a question abeyant the vital...

Halfway through the latest phenomena, you stop to observe a small herd of black angus cattle standing in snow in a wheat field outside Ringling, Montana. It is the first day of winter, 18 below & they’ve huddled close together in a wide circle, en masse, one indivisible body warming the other....

Somewhere far, far out On the Montana plains Left in the attic Of an old stone farmhouse Hangs a broken-necked fiddle With mouse-gnawed soundboard And missing strings. I hear it most nights. The scored dirt floor below Is rutted, the windows gone There’s less and less For the walls to be concerned about To say nothing of...

The path from here must be instinctively traced each breath avowed to relational space all thought attribution all feeling atavistic The way rain and snow dance across an interval of shadow scaling in and out of form the way stars darken toward us until our struggle to see them ceases and we are secretly...

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