Feed

Scrolling through updates

or streaming from feeds,

choice can become reflex ritual.

Accustomed to devices plotting our routes

we think less about direction

acquiescing to the algorithms

of someone or something else.

Ice on the Ridge

There's April ice on fruit ridge.

Farmers twist in smudged overalls

beside the clear-glazed boughs

and set the memory of past years

against their investments.

Talk will spread across the farms

how it's too early to worry

as men in trucks and gooseneck trailers

roll on washboard gravel

to protect what they can.

Solo Camp

A swim in the night lake

dried by the air

feet two inches in the sand

beneath galactic flare.

Orion's belt

strapped upon a lightning storm

above a sea of bobbing shadows

where the erratic charges form.

It moves towards me

with a gathering roar

pushing chaos to the beach

and me to my tent door.


_______________________________

(written sometime in 2011, I think)