A Bugs Life

Sometimes you’re the bug and other times you’re the windshield


Through the timber

and across the lake

   Haunting loon cries call

ravens begin to echo warn

I want

I want to be deafened by touch

Sensing only running chills

Visually Impaired

“Who is that old man in the mirror?” dad asked as he looked up with a crooked half smile.

Missing you

Deep breaths

Slowly exhale

Savoring what lingers

In the air