Headlights trace the curve along the road that leads to the lake, the road we don’t know the name of that changes names every bend three or four times, all of them number-names with no apparent logic, so we just… Read More ›
prose
“Stay”
Probably the last trip up Cougar Mountain for the year. Rained from start to finish, mud in the car now, the smell of wet dog. The trail a mash-up of leaves all brown and yellow, the maples are the last… Read More ›
Reserving the giblets
I drank an ale and made the gravy. The gravy was to be made over several hours the book said. Outside it was gray and Dawn said look at that rain. It hadn’t been raining before, it just started, so… Read More ›
“Dry”
I sat down with my boss in an alcove off to the side in an area intended for casual conversation. Everything was done at that point, I’d signed the paperwork and decided I was leaving. Both of us were relieved,… Read More ›
Light a candle for now
After the wind storm I came downstairs and looked outside. The stars were out, the moon the shape of a hook, it seemed like it was just full. I lit some candles and made coffee. All this going back to… Read More ›
October’s solemn smile
Thank god for the gold-red leaves for without them, I think there’d be no color. Old relatives like dead leaves fall off shriveled-brown-unnoticed and swept to the side, the cold takes them, a different kind of harvest. In the morning… Read More ›
Poppy field in a hollow, Whidbey Island
In the early morning before the sun hits the tops of the trees it’s so quiet on the island it’s like the quiet has its own sound that expands to surround you. Even the clouds appear fixed over the water,… Read More ›
Late morning early fall, the beginning of the end all over again
I go to nature to heal, I go every day. And though it always feels the same, it never is. I rummage through the past and present, I go looking for what others leave behind. I didn’t expect the moon… Read More ›
Portrait of a subject reduced to a thread
The ticking of the clock, the rain drops, the same sound of the wood burning when it pops. There’s no sound like that on digital clocks. And at the traffic light we converge for a time: everyone looking down, in… Read More ›
Wednesday’s twilight anthem
The Jupiter’s Beard is fanned-out pornographic in our front yard, exposed to the root. And the grass is so dead, it’s what Gregg Allman’s beard must have looked like before he died, the same gold-straw color, drawn out thick. It’s… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 