Through the dark, through the wind, through the snow


I know where it leads, the

Desiring, plotting, and striving, the pushing and rowing.

Redevotion, quietness and truth

Reverence for higher things–

Deepening understanding,

Meditation and stillness, the only refuge from the shocks of fate.

New beginning –

Dormancy now.

Wait for signs of spring.



The moon in this season has incredibly long fingers

Like chopstick-shaped driftwood weathered on the shore

Those fingers are picking over my bones, white bones

Long, white, driftwood fingers

My bones strewn everywhere from mountain range to mountain range

Across many trails and journeys 

Where my heart was so sure a home would be found

A respite from the razors of the wind 

But left out all mushy and vulnerable in the name of hope

An inexhaustible winter

Laid down my body, bone by bone

And now the moon

Picking them like an instrument 

As if some magic could wake them

As if some song could dance them in this cold, cold wind 

And start my heart singing again with all these stars.


There’s a trail the free range horses cut

At dawn I follow it

Wearing moccasins like my mother did before me

So I can feel the earth below

My mother now walking some unseen place under me

A reflection each step.

Every place has its own rhythm

It takes time and attention to find it

Rubber soles cannot feel it

Rendering so little of the dance on this side.

Take off your shoes 

And remember who came before you

Let the ancient rhythm be the mirror under your feet

It’s hard to feel lost once it’s found you.


Vulture Tribe

I don’t live anywhere now.

I live nowhere, 

everywhere in between.


This morning the music of vultures 

high in the forest,

so many voices.

Early sun through shiny, tall blades of grass, 

glimmering trees,

a simple breeze makes the world shimmer green.

Because I live nowhere, I can be here. 


Life is here.

Death is over a few more ridges, occasionally comes knocking,

just to remind me how close it is.

Most people live as if they’re never going to die,

they cannot understand my living with vultures.


A True Story

Black bird turns and cocks its head

the magnificent beak opens,

she comments.

Giant white-tailed deer, stamping feet,

stamping, stamping feet 

she appears angry. 

Flicking her ears 

straight leg hoof exclamation,

she runs into the thick forest – – 

then returning, she snorts and blows

portent, retreating, twilight enriches.

Languid cat appears there 

enormous, eye piercing 

there is no mistake, she has been waiting.

She has come for me.


What We Have

There is no path that goes all the way.

This one leads deeper into Nowhere, 

then just stops at some tall grass,

a small patch by a creek,

a good destination if 

you’re a rabbit 

or a wolf.

There is no path that goes all the way. 

Take it over the mountain 

to the next town 

where there is a front porch 

where you’ll spend a minute,

and then there are paths 

that lead to everywhere,

but not one that goes all the way.

In the hour of noon the shadow fades, 

the paths seem to stop as predictably, 

but there is still time 

and to fill time, don’t we carry on? 

Yet still there is no path that goes all the way,

so rest here in this grass and breathe 

consider the wolf and the creek 

the light after night 

and the stars that return after interruption.

Then listen because under it all

is a heartbeat, a song.

It is yours.


In the meadow I was running 

Tree line ahead to a trail

That leads up

And everything was so green-

Each leaf catching light on its own,

A separate sparkle dancing in the breeze

And I climbed that trail

That kept leading up, 

Where there was no one-

There is never anyone.

The plants blending branches to trunks,

And sky to canopy,

Shadow and light to breath,

Me a part of it for a moment–

As if I belong,

Thinking how good it is-

How good to be tall and green,

Covered in light and stroked by shadow.