Sunday, 8 March 2015


The vixen is calling again in the night
Raspy anguished cries that hardly seem likely,
to my human presumptions,
to attract anything,
except my condolences.
And yet somewhere in the moon lit trees
her suitors are inevitably smiling
All around me things are shifting
creeks solid with ice and snow
suddenly crack and open,
wide and brown and vocal
People and animals and things, are taking wing and leaving
some, like gangly fledglings pushed from the nest
others gone but for the faint sound of distant beating wings.
Mostly, I can see the good
in sliced wrists and broken hearts,
returning to roots and spring cleaning lives
But there are moments when I'm bogged down
the fresh mud and thawing mounds of dogs' spent meals
mountains of expired food and piles of confused questions
collecting at my feet
The uncertainty of so many things I cannot control
a lesson in release and trust
These are the simple truths
The vixen will call, again and again
every spring
and the magpies will be busy at their nests all day
The same streams that meander in the heat of July will rage in March
and this too shall pass
Where there is change,
there is life.

Sunday, 18 January 2015


The old man has died. 
Taken his slow and tired steps into the valley away from the crowd and laid down amongst the trees, signs of his last moments spent running against air and dreams as if chasing one last bovine opponent into the world beyond.

Tuesday, 13 January 2015


The scene initially looks macabre, a pile of still bodies at a wet entrance, still more resting easily within the sparkling snow around the hive.  But in this season, when the Chinook winds blow and the temperature climbs just slightly above freezing, this is a sign of life within.  This is what living and housekeeping  and (I would say) mourning looks like - if one were a honeybee.

Monday, 5 January 2015


They bravely climbed the steps today
a first among a day of firsts
up into the body of this yellow bus
Without the expected hug after hug after hug from the littlest one
With the expected stoic sureness of the oldest
-busy memorizing bus numbers and paths to his brothers classroom door-
With the unexpected nervousness tucked tight in their mama's belly
I do not know how such handsome bodies
have come from mine
Where their bravery comes from
Their never ending enthusiasm for the adventures of life
And yet they arrive home safely to me
spilling bodies and stories and smiles, from the yellow of this bus
at the end of a day spent steeped in new
and I see that they will do just fine
perfectly even
in this great big beautiful world

Thursday, 1 January 2015

001/365 Bodies

My body, your body, their bodies.  Bodies of work.
Bodies of water. 
The goal?
Be expansive, interactive, inclusive, impulsive, inspiring, compelling. Speak truth, explore fantasy.  Document.