There he was
in all his loner glory
as we drove down through the mountains
South towards L.A.

The heron isn't solid and stable
like these ancient arching stones
He, of course, reminded me of you
Full on airy dreams, other places to be

And just like you
He'd soon spread those
fine feathered wings
and be gone on his way

A small girl with braids steals snapshots out a squoval window
Every soul, each object in the long cabin
is overcast with a sheen of sleepy,
jet fueled jet lag
But daylight, pure and natural
shines through on the small wanderer, basting her in possibility

The plane interior is pale, cool gray
with sky blue accents
Matching this, the child-woman wears comfy, muted 3 day sweats {luggage lost}
and the snow capped Rockies she gazes upon tie it all together:
Silvers, grays, whites, and
A Touch of the Blues

She'll get somewhere soon
but for now she'll just
be

The wind sneaks in through my window sill
and I can hear the rhythm of the rain.

A shy draft looms like a visitor
misplaced it roams my way.

Outside I hear the thunder howl
as windswept trees whisper my name,
so I close my eyes to the chill of the moon
pushing blue hues through my glass pane.

i used to lay on the snowed-in flowerbeds
of nan's backyard. once it snowed enough,
you couldn't tell that a ****** of perrenials
slept peacefully there: all crushed
and crooked beneath
dirt and ice.

some days she'd come and join me
if the ground was soft enough:
we'd stargaze up into the cosmos
of pine trees overhead and listen
for the stillness of winter - the hush
of silence that lingered in the air.

ivy and henbit writhed
gingerly underfoot:
a quiet dogfight
of frozen earth
that begged a
sluggish spring
to come out of
hiding.

Fievel goes West
Picture me
A wee mouse
lofting my parcels
in a handkerchief
tied to a walking stick
Bringing so little
and gaining so much
I can't wait to lay
eyes on my anchor
of stars
Across these states
In a new place
so novel, so far