Fog until 9 a.m.
Sitting in their trees,
the hunters hear
every drip.
A silent crow flies past,
something dangling from its beak.
Water beads
on the coiled tendrils
of wild grapes.
Unmistakable, the sound of hooves
on wet leaves — until it stops.
The fog thins.
A pair of does stand frozen,
raising & lowering the white
alarms of their tails.
(o)
I really like the sound of this poem read aloud, and the photos work well with it.
Love these photos and text combined–both a bit mysterious and suspenseful.
Fantastic!
Schweeeet. And how could I resist the charms of the Ur-Tendril?
;-)
You’ve also captured that cold wetness of early morning in the woods. I love the wire and tendrils together.
Thanks for the comments. Lori, I suspect that your photos, such as the one in qarrtsiluni, influenced my seeing.
This is lovely, dave. The photos work very well with the poem. I like how all the senses are engaged.
thank-you
Hi, r.a. and q.r.r. Glad you liked this. I’m working through a general lack of inspiration these days — a good discipline for me.
Nice. Great photos, and I like the spare poem. Goes well with the starkness of the setting, with the slightest sound or movement momentous.
Very vivid and grounded in the senses. Just like experiences I have had myself.
The poem and photos are much appreciated and admired, and thanks for the link to Lori’s Curriculum photo. I sense a ‘net potentiation effect here; I see these photos and they make me want to go out and seek evocative images of my own.
Thanks for the comments.
Great! I’ll look forward to seeing what you come up with.
fabulous. the photos hold one suspended.