Dear deer tracks, divots shaped like hearts down this sandy wash we follow the memory of water, the stone that is the bones of water. Dear
Debra Marquart
if the lake, as the man said, was tea-stained, then I am a spoonful of honey, content to dissolve in warm summer water. if the color,
There’s nothing left in this frozen field. Bent cornstalks in icy mud. Nubs picked clean. All vegetable matter blanched to a ghostly white. Clumped roots rotted
Fermento Y es verdad que ella se cansa, sus oídos padecen ese tan mío retroceder, se angustia tras percibir un tropel de pensamientos, lejos, más allá
We’ve been making our way down a trail choked by vines (wild grape and greenbrier) one season’s growth threatening to close the path. My son, for
1. I just love trees…I think about what they see. 2. Thoreau said take your body to nature—where nature can root inside you. 3. I kneel
1. I had a notion for a bird in flight and started sketching turkey vultures. 2. I hadn’t yet gotten close enough to render proper plumage,
1. As a child, I’d race after my siblings and watch as they’d scamper up trees. 2. I envied them their boundless bodies—I would try and
As the evening wore on, the humpback whale’s breathing became increasingly labored. From my vantage point on the beach, about fifty yards from her fluke, I
The primate pushes its knees against its mother’s stomach. Its eyes closed, it navigates by primordial attraction, slowly nudging and twisting its way to its first