I leave the house with a fully packed truck: wheel barrow, buckets & tools; a thermos of nettle tea, two slices of buttered bread, and chick pea spread; a phone, a tee shirt, an empty mug for coffee, in case I decide to stop for that; a possible plan to visit with an old friend, at the tail end of the day…

The day started rainy, but dried off as I drove, skipping over a mountain gap, past the ranger station & down along the magnificent White River valley…

The trumpets of spring are here again, sending out their clarion call …

Sometimes you only know a town by its store, passing through, with no close friends about, maybe once a month…

Contemplating sticks is something I do, although I admit much of what they say to me goes into my unconscious rather than telling me directly…

The rivers are gushing, still blending snow melt seamlessly with rock & debris…

I've occasionally lamented to folks who know me well, that I wish I could work in a public garden…

I’ve had so much on my mind lately …

Despite the threat of bears attacking them, I fill my bird feeders one more time…

“I feel like we’re living in a snow globe”, she said…

Grief is a river, taking the form & shape of the channels it's forced through, and yet, flow is everything…

“They're old people", he said, then fell silent. "How old?" I countered. "Oh, in their 70s ..." he replied…

I was driving back from the post office Saturday morning, and since I'd had it in my mind to try to connect a couple trails between conservation land & a local park, I decided to first drive by to gauge snowfall amounts…

The town plow decided not to plow to my house today, but close to it, which was no cigar…

Sometimes you have to play out a hunch…

Leaving Jeff's, I didn't know where I was going but I decided to continue along the dirt road bordering his property, because I'd seen a car coming out of it, which meant it was passable, probably…

The claws of winter are still about, cruel to some, kinder to others…

What's left of the snow cleaves to my heart, as if its melting is some remnant of my own dissolution…

We stop at the old farmhouse to feed the cat, stepping gingerly over the threshold as if entering a museum called "home"…

"Can you tell me what was wrong with it?" he said, and it was a reasonable question…