D.C., 1:52 A.M.

The sickly yellow of mercury vapor street light

reflects a clouded sky;

blotting out a billion stars nestled in rich inky black.


A siren wail,

the obnoxious rude honk of a car,

replaces owl song accompanied by an orchestra of frogs and insects.


No open window with cool fresh air;

rather, a room closed

against the sultry smell of sour milk,

bathed in the white noise of air conditioning.


Red Lake,

you are far away.

The Frogs are shaking their rattles

with no discernible rhythm.


They stand unseen

beyond the reach of the porch light.

surrounding the house

in the sultry night air


summoning me.



Sometimes we happen upon something in nature that is beautiful in the moment.

And then when we return, that beauty has faded or disappeared.

This is a bright orange shelf fungus I discovered in my back yard while I was putting some things away.

Midnight in Red Lake.

The air is cool through the open bedroom window.

Dogs are barking.

Somewhere in the distance,

to the Northwest,

someone singin’ Indian.

Their song fades in and out.

Rose Haze

Four white pelicans surround the boat
squabbling for a chance at some cast off walleye.

Red lake is so big that rose haze permeates the horizon
in all four directions.

Some clouds are so low you reach up and touch them overhead,
while cirrus clouds lazily drift high in the sky.

Hear their cadence and accent as we commune.
Old friends reacquainted.

Loon Calls

Loon calls echo through the ghosts of Tamaracks

On Chain o lakes

The Crows Are Laughing

Trying to fix the mower deck
with hand tools and elbow grease.

The Crows are laughing.


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