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...

On Saturday mornings. The wind is wilder in his current pasture. My arms surround his neck. My fingers comb his mane. Does he miss me or my carrots? He is calming veterans souls. And teaching their children skills. He seems to know he is performing good work. He is...

His name is Prince. He had a mate named Purple Rain. She has been gone since November. A part of the circle. Either by hawk or eagle or coyote. She stayed close to the barn. Snuggled with the dogs. He was the wanderer. Ran from the dogs. He survives. Barn cats either...

I'm a Dachshund addict. Bed warmers, clowns, wrigglers. Flying, not running. Legs too short to reach the ground. Head to tail in motion when I come home. With them, my sleep is sound. Winnie in the back of my knees. Wolf in front of my belly. If I'm a straight line we...

Days begin to linger. The sun comes up in my bedroom window. My alarm is gobblers and hens. Gobble. Gobble. Too many to count. Soon there will be jakes and jennies. Benny and Nala call them dinner.

I would turn 65 in Montana. A piece of the world burns, starves, flees from what they never imagined. Come to my canyon. Live to be as old as me. No matter the cold and the snow. My porch is peace. Hidden deep and away. Peace should be easier to...