Rivers When is a creek a river and when is a river a creek? I imagine an engineer could point to it having to do with water, volume, and time of year. In my world there was always a creek or a river, to fish in, to swim in, to float on. When I was seven my dad took me fishing, just he and I. I was in a state of high alert as I cast a bobbin upstream. I could smell the ripe detritus of life cycles in that water. And dirt, it smelled like dirt. That smell imprinted on my memory so that many fertile waters would feel like home. On the surface, a graceful black snake swam through rotting leaves- dragonflies danced with small insects in the shadow of a cottonwood I waited quietly and watched. From the bottom of the river, A mossy green catfish, whiskers waving, breached the surface and took the bait flipping and trying to run away with the worm. My first catch. Filleted and fried and it tasted like mud and earth. Now the river was in my belly.

Lightening

I want to explore the world,
My body filled with lightning,
sizzling and luminous.
Under a blanket of stars.

The Five Horsemen

The Five Horsemen arrive
every morning at sunrise...

Who
What
When
Where
How...

Will this day go, start, middle, end, schedule.
The currency of the day already becoming
Precious barter
To be spent.

These fucking horsemen. They steal from me.

I have lived the days of my life,
searching for what they demand.
Where each day was a deposit or
productive withdrawal of funds.

Some days I simply ignore them,
because the pounding of their hooves
Is no longer so demanding.
They don't run through my yard like they
used to.

Message Received

Always to be awakened, I awake and begin the search.
The light level of morning spreads over my cuddled nest
of cotton and fur.
An open window beckons
to trails to be traveled and those which
close to home will be the way to stay close.

The quiet reverie is broken by the
ding ding of message received.

Two Haiku

Fat ripe green caterpillar
Arch, expand, squeeze across stones.
The road fell apart. 

When fluffy seed puffs
Toss and spin white stars overhead
The sky blue is thick.

In Gratitude to a Rock at Machu Picchu

There are times when there are
other languages to discover.

In conversation at the top of the world,
I have selected you, unpolished quarry rock,

to converse with, touching spine and bone
on your slanted outlook of granite.

We speak of mist and shadows.
Purple orchids, Pachacuti.
Exploding Stars.

Life and death, life and death.

A llama has defecated nearby,
drawing large beetles.
An ant makes a trail like a tiny mountain climber.

In deference to solid advice.

What happens in airports

Philadelphia 

She saw me at a table tapping at my laptop. 
I looked up and saw an airport ID on her large bosom.

She said you look like a writer. 

Can you help me write a letter for my church? 

She wears shiny gold dresses on Sunday she says.

She gives roses to pregnant girls on marble stoops.

She says to them, join me in the house of the Lord,

She wants to help her church people fly.