Category Archives: Prose

Bernie’s Boots


Bernie’s gilded boots,
worn no more, last step taken.
Now, back door sentinels.

This last pair of many,
first donned, same as the rest,
smooth and anonymous.

All worn, worn out,
through darkness and day,
cold and hot, wet and dry,

Calloused feet,
more comfortable unshod,
wore and smoothed leather lining.

Toiled steps
creased, soaked, scarred, and scuffed,
skin, hide and sole.

Observers now, and evidence of,
a vital, irresistible habit of industry,
gapped only by well deserved sleep.

Responsibilities fulfilled shine these boots.
No longer partners in toil,
now, adornment to life well spent.

East Branch Valley


Left to right, Round Hill, Elk Hill North Knob, Elk Hill South Knob.

East Branch Valley

As they have for hundreds of years,
visitors and homecomers alike,
journey East Branch Valley
toward the heart of Elk Mtn Area.

To some,
a passage as they rusticate;
a harbinger of repose.

To those who dwell
in deep folds of shaded valleys,
along crests of worn ridges,
the soft familiar hills of home.

Autumn Stand


At dusk, I picked all the pears that I could reach.
Last night, the first hard frost.
Today, the air is crisp, the sky cool blue, paled by wispy clouds.

Yesterday, white, blue, and steel grey swirled,
animating the sky, hurrying, destination uncertain.

From across the valley, lumpy snow squalled from the mix,
sifting through cloud gaps like a sheer curtain
eased through an open kitchen window
by a bland summer breeze.

And I remember Eli telling me that an old timer told him:
“In these parts, you have to have as much as you need done for winter by mid-October
…after then, anything can happen “



The cool wet spring turned to Summer on 21 June. Since then, the days have been warm and dry, with very little rain.

The weather for the Fourth of July was stereotypically seasonable; hazy hot, and humid – the hottest spell of the year so far.

Many of us passed the days with music, friends and family.

Agreeable weather also obliges portions of days be spent in fields.

Harvest Time Toil


Harvest Time Joy

Mother Nature and her merry makers’ moon shadows play across water and sand.
Mating with the wind, the ancient common fire spirals loosely, dancing starward.
Rising close, the harvest moon, swollen and bright, watches all from beyond the nearby pines.
On the shore, backs to the dark, eyes roll back, necks lengthen, mouths posture.
Hill Dog’s chorused howl travels the night.