Migration clicks another degree toward winter.

Time to move on. Rains scrub wildfires from that Big Sky soul

that this summer remained veiled.

Do you miss the obvious?

Did you take for granted a heart that is always open?


Time to head home, prepare for winter

long comfort that never seemed to arrive

silence battered by skidder, chainsaws, 100 year old white pine felled

crying everyday with each stick of wood I load into the stove

How do I live in this truth?


Birth coddled soul undulate vertical myths skyward

release this intercourse where a sun coiled fawn

is an embryonic ear twitching hair

late autumn grass.