Winters nascent white falls
on the boughs of orchard branches
and carpets the earth outside my window;

The coating has a strength in it's gentle glow
softening and subduing the landscape
in a pale light, diffused by cloud,

Lifting with the purity of a doves wings
And drifting with a melancholy like ashes,
Settling, like the baseness of bones,

Something bare and beautiful
is reflected outside
in the raw winds of transition,

Out of the dark belly of solstice,
In all the suddenness and subtlety of being
snow flakes are inchoate and bristling.

Hustle in garden  .  .  .
Choice of bird houses ready,
  .  .  .  Only sparrows nest.

one hundred mile an hour winds
due say the weather diviners
all will be lost that's not tied down
phone internet ferries
"Bring it on" I say bravely while its still calm
and wait fragile as a feather

Shiftless, sifting the air,
Plunging gyrations,
Crow speak
Hackle, hacking;
Speckles the sky.

Saw the air whittle to smoke,
Black mar in the weir of wings
And mankind muddled in the wraith,
Slowly streams a bread trail
Forth and back;
Black bleeding.

I see your claw tracks,
Dark-digging-sparkle
Plain in the muck,
Needles threading,
A trail of stars.

Exposed kneeling roots,
Graceful boughs of ancient tree,
  .  .  .  Buddha in the sun.

moss at sunset
embers of green -
a snowflake melts

Frogs— suddenly dive,
Blocks of flesh crane to the sky,
Heron holds head high.

All the valleys, green, rumpled
And cresting in their April dress
And all the creatures who live under,
They wade and stroke and dive,
I live high above in my light house,
Watching the ocean waves.

Gathering chaparral, just after rain
sticky leaved, miniscule, green
tiny bundles, scented woody
now one, with earthen hands
under a winter moon, garland star stitched
pitch of juniper, pinion fire
only a dalliance this
fragrant desert
pyre

Sun slowly sinking above the river rushing,
Lime white lilies trumpet to the moon aloof,
Fatted fowl wading, an end to days hushed,
Lo, mercurial otter slips downstream— ****!

Song of man over,
Canary already dead,
Mother Earth sings now.

Is all concrete below ephemeral skies,
To think what is now as already made,
Riding lone, the plateaus of a minds eye,
Or is whole of nature purest esplanade?

Ecstatic bird songs pound
the hollow vastness of the sky
with metallic clinkings—
beating color up into it
at a far edge,—beating it, beating it
with rising, triumphant ardor,—
stirring it into warmth,
quickening in it a spreading change,—
bursting wildly against it as
dividing the horizon, a heavy sun
lifts himself—is lifted—
bit by bit above the edge
of things,—runs free at last
out into the open—!lumbering
glorified in full release upward—
                              songs cease.