pear leaves strum the high wire
fern roots claw a sun drenched bank
creep vines mount the hedgerow
sow bugs jump a grated worn step

picket wall stain on cedar
mountain stream brisk at lush green pass
four legs down the foot path
biscuit brown trailers fill the pipe

spiders march on dew web
knots and rivets cut hard at the seam
maples cover the forest floor
sap ***** ping the front gate

dandelions drift on west breeze
blue berries plump at shepherds grove
wood sill holds a stained glass
letter box lined above the scrub

delft ware on the mantle
(with petals and script for a promised guest!)
junior poised with mouth agape
birds and squirrels whistle jovial tunes

goldfinch darts the sea ranch
tabby cat rests in a white wicker chair
a crafters window in the alpine
follies await the summer task!

queen bee on the flutter
airedale set on a woven grey mat
watchmen of the hollow (+ earwig and mite!)
scurry, under rustled moist leaves

frogs leap at trickle creek
shutter bugs mount on gryphons lair
still water ripples in the shaded pool
folding fingers on corner bridge

foragers cut the high shelf
silver fish come to life
whiskey jack sings on indian green
elijah and xavier pause...
at a long days end

sound of horn heralds-
bedecked bull ambles along,
a world gone, returns!

Waking two hours before dawn,
my young grandson and I,
The old stagecoach Inn was
dark and silent, squeak
of floorboards underfoot the
only discernible sounds.

A crowd of deer bounded away
off the green front lawn as we
sleepily made our way to the truck.

A bright yellow full moon was on
descending ebb, in a star clustered
sky, allowing just enough light,
to light our way by.


The high desert two lane road was
fully deserted, only our headlights
pierced the darkness. Within seconds
they began to appear, darting from
both sides of the narrow road, as if on
a mission, hypnotically attracted to our
headlights I assume.  At 60 miles an hour
almost impossible to miss.
But, god knows I tried. "Thump, Bump!"

"Thump, bump!" Another bunny under my
wheels, swerving not really mattering, miss
one hit two others. Jackrabbits and cottontails,
as if Kamikaze inspired, eight or ten at a time
from both sides of the road darted headlong
trying to cross. Fast as they were some did not
make it.

We stopped counting the carnage near 100 hits,
no way to tally the many we missed.  No joy in
keeping score of the newly departed. By the time
we reached the Alvord Desert, the ride transformed
into a 25 mile surrealistic trip. Who could have
known there could be so many?

Blood on my tires and my soul, I did not intend.

Out on the vast dry white, hard caked, once long
ago lake bed, now desert, we sat watching the new
day's sun rising up from behind the distant eastern
mountains. This quiet inspiring moment having
been our goal of intention.

All the while, I was distracted from the
magnificent scene before us, as I kept
seeing and hearing the repeated echoes of;
"Thump, Bump! Thump, Bump! Oh no,
not another!" In my guilt ridden brain.  
Why they do it I can not say, compelled
perhaps, like moths to a flame.

I wrote about you last night
when there were supposed to be
a million falling stars

clouds got in the way
but hell, those weren't really suns
falling to their death

would have been fitting
if they were, for the cliche is apt:
you being my light of day

and you did fall from the sky,
though not through the firmament at night
with others tracing your trails

you jumped solo from the
GW Bridge, on a clear Thursday
at a low high noon

your obit was politically polite, not
describing your terse flight, or the bones
the Hudson's waters crushed

so I wrote about you last night
a missive to me--I asked what the Times did not,
what was your final thought

when you stepped from the rail:
did you see your whole life fly before your eyes
or just sky, water and the helpless bridge

Mud, whiskey, death
and bad debts, the river's
high water, mysterious birds
flying south disappearing
like a youngest daughter,
no good men, bad intentions,
changing seasons, unexplained
pains, all of these are reasons
I've seen good women weeping
after the hardest rains came.