Betwixt

Summer is slipping off to sleep

tucked up tight with her

colored quilt of leaves.

Often the dreams of silent snow

will fill her head till spring,

when the buds begin to grow.

Then she will turn the sheets

and lay new linens out

for her winter sister's sleep.

Now the colder kin foresees

the bask of roses blooming

in the slow and sunny days.

And so they trade the bed again,

swapping sistered dreams,

and living coupled lives.

Wal-lamt

  

  










  this clouded valley
nests me in its wrinkled palm
  murmuring of rain


Wal-lamt (translated as Green Rive) was the name associated with the Kalapuyan settlement once located near what is now called  Willamette Falls- Thought to be the origin of the name "Willamette."

For Mom

    quilted leaves are sewn
with the chilling autumn wind
    -flurried drunkards path

Water colors

     early autumn rain
 has not changed the leaves yet
     -falling colors soon

Stars

   silver spider web
glistening with morning dew
   -spun constellation

last rites

    -summer blossoms fade

falling autumn raindrops

     carry them away

au revoir

   first rains of autumn
whisper of summers passing
   -soft tears of farewell

Apple Tree

     a crow leers at me
watching the fallen apples
   -today's lunch is served

Whoopup Crik

You might think laughter spilled and tumbled along its riffles and rocky banks: the product of an old coarse and crusty joke perhaps. It’s telling done with such vigor some poor unsuspecting soul suddenly burst aloud with guffaws and wrung these very waters from the rocks. 

But it’s no ordinary creek or niche, it looks as if a long-gone giant cut himself the largest wedge of sandstone cake and left the wetted cleft behind.  What founted spring slakes these babbled rocks? I only know that water's flow no matter how divined, and are most welcome on this parched Montana plain.

Come branding time on the open range with no fences and no pens, the creek will cradle the spring’s crop of wandering stock at their fated destination. Ranch men whoop and holler, hat-slapping thighs chase bawling calves to the funneled crotch, to wait wild-eyed yet unmarked. 

Their pyres made: the ritual began for hands and countless calves alike. They together smell the pungent reek of burning hair and hear the sear of the hot iron's brand. One by one released then quenched by the water on their exodus from Whoopup Crik