how perfect it is
in between the heavy spills of rain
the ants pace in perfect seams
and tend to their industry of secrets

a woodpecker hops
about the soft trunk of a dead tree
tapping here                                                                                             tapping there

the tiny eyes of sakura
begin to slowly open

go ahead and mark your season

pick a place in the bright stream of things and dance away in the details

catch cadence and gather all the mystery you can possibly hold

and fear not

when our time is up

we will
not be forgotten

until our time is up

and we will
be forgotten

and that
will be just fine

when was the last time

you sat beneath the stars
and took your place
at the table
of the infinite?

when was the last time

you sat beside a river
whitecapped
and roaring
with snow melt
and spring rain?

when was the last time

you walked in the forest
the only sounds
your footsteps
and breathing?

when was the last time

you let silence seep in
and clean you?

the sun and the rain take turns at the pile of snow in the park across the street from our house

it is a filthy and considerable drift but such is the snow in spring

each day it recedes

released from the dark from the heavy press of it the grass beneath breathes green

the bricks of the sidewalk now exposed are warm and dry

can you feel it?

when night collapses

when all the wounded stars cool blue to black

when the world shakes and the great sky opens wide

can you feel it?

grief is everywhere

hopping through
heavy april snow

as if it didn't know
which way to go

or what to
do

beneath a sky now
perfectly blue

a crow
tilted it's head just so

and flew

most winter mornings
i see the prints in the new snow

pursing up and down the street
and around our house

always busy
always following

some scent impulse curiosity
always returning

to the dark mystery
of the mountains

once                                                 once
when i couldn’t sleep                   snowshoeing
i looked                                           up the mountains
out the predawn window            it came bursting out
and saw it                                       of the forest
walking up the street                    and into the deep snow
without a care                                just before me
in the world                                    

                                                         it looked
                                                         at me
                                                         turned away
                                                         and quickly bound
                                                         up the trail
                                                         all bright flamed tail
                                                         and fun

on the side of the road
atop a tall drift of snow

a crow picked at the body
of a dead fox

a night or two ago
the fox must have failed

to navigate the busy mountain road
there was no blood

and even less malice

still                   the snow fell
still                   the wind howled through leaveless trees
still                   night keep circling untrimmed and sprawling

when it is snowing
i have taken to walk the timber road just down the hill from my home  

it rises and switch backs for miles up into a stretch of quiet mountains
in december when the traction of new snow is slow and perfect

i am often the only person on the trail  
fox and deer prints are always visible

one morning i saw bear prints and followed them
large patches of the ground. were clawed away

where the bear had been looking for food
eventually the tracks disappeared down a sharp embankment

how often do we        come into contact with the wilds of life?
how often do we        bump into the excitement of the unrestrained?

it is a humbling thing
to knock upon danger’s door

to feel the uncertainty of it
to feel alive