shorebirds / co-existence

keeping of wild places

where do our street people go?

when we fix up the clay cliffs

and the riverside

those people are my kin

they are my wild places too

living along a river

and not!

those peel river stickers

oil on oil on oil

stickers on cars that are driving

hmmmm

my garden

i work hard in the garden, just so you see, straightening out my life, is to be at peace possible?

fireweed shows all colors imaginable, stalks flying, branches scattered, blown down by the wind,

orange billowing around me, stars stinging my eyes.

writing is a curse, do describe a single moment spend with you would take a lifetime.

when i work hard maybe you see, i need to clean this up so you see who is inside of the me you see.

dandelions will never be eradicated from my path, lamb's quarters, poplars, squirrel grass, 

poisonous locoweed is toughest.

there is no place like my own garden, we listen to the aspen leaves, my aspen taller and stronger then all the rest,  like you. nothing trembling  about it, 

more like your thundering of the waves on the rocks. 

it's not the sex, it's the moments in between

and this is not my garden, it's a piece of perfect wilderness

a beautiful hot day

 a few weeks already we have seen the odd crocus blooming

next came the roses 

and now also there are lupines blooming, 

pink among dark purple of the fall fireweed 

blue in the midst of red and yellow

and that with brilliant starry skies at night

 i haven't seen the moon yet