The permission givers are dead, their fingers fallen like dust from my wrists. Nothing’s left to fear – friends live here, some traveled early or late through death’s door, their praise and criticism heard no more. Only the work remains to claim before day’s end. I am who I’ve known myself to be.


Black forms fly north-by-northeastover the transparent moon.First one, a fewthen a broken ribbon crosses the sky as the crows fly home to roost.  Audubon does not saynor maps revealwhich nook hidesso many Corvids.They sway and weave  heading coastwardover lagoons and draw bridgesrivers and roads.  I’ve wanted to befrienda crow for yearsalthough I knowtaming wild things… Read More CROWS