Poetry
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Walking over loose trail rock on the coast of Point ReyesFog dripping from bishop pine like rain A white-crowned sparrow whistles its morning songthere but not seenA black-tailed deer steps onto the trail then passes into the fog beyond the mossy trees
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Cool wind, brushed in tones of lake-blue, drifted across the water’s skin, ruffling it into soft ripples that lapped gently at my feet Quiet, ancient greetings from a body older than memory. Nearby, a pile of boulderstone, weathered and gray, rose like a relic from the earth. Silent, stoic, just beyond the whispering grass. And…
A Digital Collection 