In the Hinterlands

the mountain hollow’s
yellow meadow

thrumming under another
morning fog

we curl around
our private griefs

before mourning becomes
a form of conformity

recall the headlonging
rush of young buds

the grand flourishes
the common sense we made

invasive weeds freed
from all native constraints

to wander the earth
planting our flags

it’s not easy out
on the edge of civilization

the marching bands
do their best

teams from rival towns
smash into each other

the mascot’s feathered head
rests in his hands

Three Miles, Uphill in Both Directions

the sun was a letter
of the alphabet then

my stomach could pronounce it
better than my mouth

on the walk to school through
two centuries of wreckage

past a ghost village
and the end of town eaten
by the interstate

along train tracks we knew
to get off of when
they started to hum

up over the wooded hill
in the center of town
with its water tank and cemetery

past hidden rooms
with walls of wild grapevines
whispering truancy

down into the industrial classroom
a prison of numbers

where zero seemed to hold
all the keys

Rainiac

In the house of rain, all are kin. Consider the toadstool releasing its spores when the rain comes knocking. Many of those spores drift up into the atmosphere, where they become cloud condensation nuclei and give birth to new raindrops—with moisture released by the trees. I recite this true fable to myself as I trudge through the downpour.

that scent
of wet rhododendrons—
Pop-pop’s place

*

I like how the world is textured.

Visually and aurally and in food webs and ecological niches.

The endless intricacy and beauty of it.

It’s utterly entrancing sometimes, like the best rave ever.

*

Whatever i tell myself, it’s never enough. Understanding begins with listening.

Right now what i’m hearing is a mosquito’s singular need, crickets calling for a mate, a truck jake-breaking down a steep grade, and an transcontinental jet’s dull eraser. Plus the steady rhythm of my own steps, descending a different mountain than my own. All this can be music if I let it.

Nuthatch, chickadee. Are the winter flocks already beginning to form?

Thunder. I rummage quickly for the poncho in my pack. The downpour feels like a rather over enthusiastic masseuse.

Unnatural History Museum

pressed under glass
the last goldfinch whistle

slowly solidifies
into earwax

untroubled by looters
who choose flashier artifacts

from this dilapidated museum
close to closing time

in one diorama the leaves
are already withering

in another, farmers turn played-out
soil toward the sun

which is kept in a separate
display case on the mezzanine

right above the blowhole
of a great blue whale

***

This is similar in concept to a haibun in Failed State, though that imagined a domestic space. Because of that redundancy, I wasn’t going to share it, until I noticed that it ended on a somewhat more positive note, with a nod toward the cosmic, and decided I rather like that. Though I did flirt with the idea of continuing in a more cynical vein:

“and in the gift shop they carry
disposable vape pens of petrichor…”

Brief Case

i am not equal
to the stars

much less any junkie’s
point of light

my right index
fingernail has gone missing

i share a common tongue
with lawyers and sociopaths

a small white moth spends
the night in one of my shoes

so i avoid the paper
get my blood bath from the dawn

*

red dawn over darkened hills

Hollow Folk

without issue i can feel the forest
thicken within me

build up fuel and hunger
for that incendiary spark

ah to slash and burn
plow and harrow with my ancestors

or cut down the old giants
and replace them with windmills

deadly flowers scything
the air for migrants

our doom laid out
like a meal for ravens

fates intertwining like fingers
at a lovers’ leap

a mile and a half up a mountain hollow
under the green banners of the sun

I live above a crawl space
too poor for a cellar

my garden is a banquet
for slugs and meadow voles

the wild mountain mint hums
with solitary bees

Once in a…

blue moon you are my last bone
to pick with an otherwise geocentric sky

your flesh is my flesh
old and inappropriate

you spread by spores or pores
or ores or res nullius

your myrmidons the crickets
keep counting down the seconds

i found you broke on the street
yet still somehow capable of rising

once in a… let’s not spoil
this rare blue mood

Cow Heaven

i pass a black glove stuck
to a white oak beside the trail

and soon i am seeing trees with faces
pot-bellied old maples

great buttressed oaks
limbs spreading in all directions

spared for the shade
they once gave livestock

now filling in fast
with pole timber

and a blue-green haze
of little white pines coming up

an old pasture slowly climbing
toward the bovine clouds

Place holder

morning smells like a burning hymnal
now that it’s afternoon

like a vast excavation
by archaeologists of the present

a blend of fresh earth and mildew
ozone and the blood of cut roots

if i were a dancer i would
know what to do

with this wild scent turning
into end-of-summer heat

as it is there are sun-drunk leaves
insects and vagrant warblers

and they seem to have
things under control

while i sit and try to be
a better place holder

One-winged wasp

for sale:
wilderness
travel
trailer

wilderness is within you my friend

assuming you have a healthy gut microbiome

*

we live in a time of signs and wonders

known as the present moment. a moment in which a tiger swallowtail might be bugging off but you capture it anyway in a good-enough-for-the-internet photo on your phone

E.T. was prophesy man i mean look at us now we are all extra, extra terrestrial man, just always phoning home. I guess that’s what it means to be terrestrial

a log i’ve stepped over hundreds of times was garnished today with these distinctive-looking cup fungi which i have never seen before in my life

***

it’s interesting to consider how much or how little work the word “natural” does in a phrase such as “natural smoke flavor added”

***

mayapples may not ripen until August it turns out, on extremely rare occasions when the local wildlife doesn’t get to them first

tastes may vary but to me a mayapple tastes less like an apple than something that may or may not be made with apples—like a junk-food version of an apple, with a very different texture in the mouth

not at all bitter, like wild lettuce

but nothing i’m going to make a point of seeking out the way i go after sassafras for example

***

when i last saw her this one-winged wasp had walked all the way up to her nest in the rafters

*

walking up the road after dark to look at the stars, but the road is full of winking glowworms—how can the sky compete?