Murmuring and moving dreamily,
the creek seems almost asleep
in its bed.

No living thing has personal experience with its ways.
Its artfulness lives in death, a blending of loss and
terrible beauty. We know it only as decay.

(photo of the underside of a rotting mushroom)

The restricted nesting area of the Terns
is like the gated 'bedroom community'
of the human beings.

Milkweed seeds have perfect little
gossamer parachutes made
of milkweed silk.

Psychics are deluded individuals with 
the peculiar notion that they can
serve as spiritual correspondents.

Silvery sun brushed blades of grass
and whispers of a breeze
tempt you out into the open
from the darkness of the trees.

Made of solid stone, an epic poem is composed by a
size XL ego; but, there is hope that with exactitude
the wasted words can be dislodged and a
small stone left standing in its place.

My past is present when memory
is scented by the perfume of Spring
lilacs and the smokiness of
burning Autumn leaves.

Something about the sound of a solitary automobile
passing down a deserted rain slick street
in the middle of the night
speaks of desolation.

Curiously sweet meat can come
from creatures whose lives
are lived in brine.

Gaunt reminders of time's passage
are caught in the sere grass
at the edge of the path.

Silent, drifting, insulating, crystalline, white,
wet, and cold are only some of the aspects
of the fast approaching snows.