Passages #39 Summits poke puffy clouds hiding hamlets from us skiers. Where’s Fleischmanns? Highmount’s gone. We’re all alone here at[…]
As day fades, we wait for poor snow about to fall on Blake’s florid fields.
Poetry waits, a blue heron standing still to spear a minnow. Poetry dives repeatedly, a hooded merganser who pops up[…]
Passages, #38 Three walls of snow intimidate us as we clutch the chairlift bar. Filling out a line with[…]
When I was in Austria, I made a pilgrimage of film noir crime by walking the steps of Holly Martins[…]