Together, can sit in silence. Observing nothing or everything. Knowing the bond is there is enough. No laughter is too loud. No talk is too tough. No emergency is too daunting. No joy goes unshared. No life is lived alone.

Politics is so vile now that contributing to it hurts my heart. Buckley and Baines make me happy. The Elk Morning children's books make me happy. Finding a publisher for my novel makes me happy. My life in Montana makes me happy. But this election is so important that...

His artistry is brilliant, historic, important. It is in museums throughout the world. We love his paintings. He likes our words. The story is about the most important event in Crow history. The Battle of Arrow Creek. Elk Morning, our character, fictitiously is there....

Too close to the house. Fire season will be here soon, again. Gracious heroes consider my thousands of trees. For these firefighters, it's a canyon of fuel. They have come to keep me safe. I offer them water. Whatever they want. "Thank you, ma'am. We have everything...

The big sky is a canvas. A pale burnt umber climbs to violet, then light cyan. Capture the rainbow with a touch of light. A master tries to paint nature to hang on a wall. Or sharing a photo is almost a shame. Because nothing is the same as being there.

Wakes the pine and sage. Natures perfume is sucked into my open windows. I breathe the intensity deep through my nose. Intoxicating me to sleep. This morning, the dew provides a lingering memory. Of how I witnessed the smell, the sound, the source of...

To race through ponds and chase coyote. Climb canyon walls and fly across pastures. Exhausted, my domain secure, the road leads home.

Butterflies fill your stomach and crawl under your skin through your chest to your heart. Numbing hands. On the floor, the fetal position is not enough. Only a soothing abyss restores. Like home. The sense of home. It may seem far away. Or long ago. If you are lucky,...

Published in https://www.poetschoice.in/books.php Living in the Mountains Covered in soft native grass framed with ponderosa pine. The old mare made a bed in the grass. I looked for her and found the hill. She would go there to sleep, to dream, to die. On blue sky...

Something yummy. Or profound. I can't wait to tell you, my best friend. About a happening from across the pond or over the hill. Is there a new treat to be shared? Did I not suffer a fool well? Did I dig my hole too deep? Did I chase a noble flying bird and then lose...