Experiencing Climate (in progress)

Afternoon breeze:

Throes of some beloved time

Mark this place,

Scribbling old, stale letters,

With the earth casting the scantest of shimmers.


Recalling its vast flatness,

Where things far gone

Seem close,

Is a breeze that weans all

From time’s pulsing song

And the golden bars of space.



Like days on end become.



Passing through leaves

And other spaces.

With barely a gesture:

Surprising in its arrival,

Fading in its passing.

Like lifting a finger

To a circling moth

And seeing another

Move along a ragged edge of focus:

Near soundless wings a flutter.


The breeze sits and waits

‘Til all else passes,

When it will stand and tell stories

In a hushed voice

That carries far,

Like grief and love

All mingled in the fields:

Meeting for the first time.

The PMD Chronicles. Page 1.

April 20, 2021

Western North America

Before the wind blows, the morning will hang raw and sunny. There is a bare urgency that hangs in the leaves of a cottonwood looming over everything here. The trembling leaves now might tell us the waiting is nearly over. The air has a stretched stillness to it, about to break time’s pace open to its whims.

We will participate, now into this day hammering into every crevice of the bank, through every stone, and seeping into our bones. The sun still shines warm and bright, the sky can easily pull you away.

Later, thunderstorms will build over the hills ringing the valley, deepening our backdrop, focusing our will into the hope that change will happen. This will turn, and leave us again in stillness. And we move with the water’s rhythm, pushed by wind into the next bend. Here we might stop and see the first of evenings bugs pulled upward, or tumbled along the water’s steady surface. A trout might even take a grab here or there, teasing us with their sudden disappearances after we think we’ve figured them out. We lean and ponder, search water, feel wind, absorb a big sky alive with later afternoon. This is where all else falls away.

The Topography of Rain (a rewrite)

These are songs we rehearse

Only to ourselves.
Feigning patience,
In the thick stagnation
When the wind fell away,
And the sun is all that is left.
This time of smoke
And old valleys
Sitting low, in their once verdant chairs,
Bosomy ranges now creaking, tight,
Under their own thirsty landscapes.
In this time of waiting,

Rhythms are scribbled across a dry creek bed:
Brittle choirs of sand and pebble,

Playing to a listless audience,

Muted in dust.

Love in the Time of Storms

One evening,

The door opened to all of life,

Everyone came to visit!

Except you, choosing instead

To light the sky

Against the gesturing silhouette of a thunderstorm.

The deft lines of rain summoning afternoon

To the hills behind my old home,

Seeming so still from here,

Like looking back in time,

When we held hands,

And the world felt quiet and steady

And open,

And futures loomed distant

Shadowed in the fleeting gift of now.

Experiments in the Wind

This space, outside, like past years

Came back to visit, in cheers.

Bringing choirs,


From trees above,

To the tiniest notes of sands,

All offered from December’s firm hands.


You might sing new a new rhythm

To the tells of water

And full moon lullabies.

An old song,

To cast off your wishes,

Before I move along.


Show me paths and leeside edens,

Your voice calling, should I turn

To hear.

Bits and pieces on this wheel


In time’s great mirror.


To be free from this turn,

Take me to the place!

Just outside

the now and then,

Move me

to a different pace.


Those melodies pulse softly now,

Of stories you read,

From behind furrowed brow.


In electricity of the night you bring,

Nestled softly

In the damp cradle of spring.


Woo us from fields afar,

Peering through sky’s great fabric,

Of tatters and thread,

Let me in,

Return me to bed.

Days of Rain…… (or: Dought part 2)

In other years,

Those times, now hastily sealed in envelopes,

Memories of those days of rain:

An incessant November after a scorched Halloween,

Or cold February rain, broken by snow,

Gusting loud and clear that afternoon,

In another damp celebration,

To the beat of scowling wind and staccato raindrops.


Winter’s pulse traced across every window.


Then, rivers of emerald velvet,

Concealing cobbled dreams,

The electricity of fish,

And the hard lines of trees

Against soft winter skies.


We dreamed of things outside us.


Now, we wake in the crisp, tingling night

Like the sound of a pin snapping,

Where it lingers on the cold edge of dawn

And stretches under the long fetch of winter sun.


Summer’s long pause distilled and bare.


These days trudge on,

Held fast under shadowy chill

Where summer escaped,

As we wonder if it ever left.


We will remember this time.

One last time?

From across the room, the sound comes though the door, along the face of the window and down from the ceiling.  Rain sings along the street out front.  The calla lilies out front fill with the water beading up along their silky white bloom.  Across the hills, tendrils of fog waft upward from the forest in a great cycle of the water returning skyward.  Today, this place is painted all green and grey – spring on hold while winter reaches out once more to soothe us maybe one last time before it all goes away into summer.

Wind (a fishing report – kind of)

The oak woodlands are bright green with the beginnings of wildflower carpets across the sunlit hillsides.  Along the river, the purple lupine and golden poppies celebrate the new sun.  This could be the quintessential spring scene except for one thing: the wind.  I saw the warnings – gusts up to 40 mph – on the heels of the storm passing to the east.  Wind that’s in a hurry to race in a big counter-clockwise arc to fuel a storm over the Rockies.   All the little places where I might find a little respite are even more trouble as the wind eddies and swirls unpredictably in the lee of the bankside trees.

On the water, the mayflies and caddis come off in good numbers.  But the winged adults skitter along the water too quickly to offer easy pickin’s for the trout below.  Swallows maneuver across the water, handling the wind with ease, grabbing up the bugs.  Not a single trout can be seen on the surface.  There’s no need, they can simply grab the bugs ascending in the water column and forgo the unpredictable surface fare.  Normally, this would be an afternoon of steady surface-feeding fish.  But not today.  A few productive reaches are visited – all with the same wind-whipped setting.  Instead, I take the time to explore two potential new sites.  Good water to be had.  But it will have to wait until another time.  I’ll be here all week – and hopefully have a chance at a classic spring day drifting dry flies for large, surface feeding trout.

Spring bike rides

The best way to see Spring here in town is on a bike. The last few days of March still might bite with a hint of winter, but the sun shines higher now and a familiar time is once again at hand. These early days are as much about the hope of Spring as they are about the actual time of year. From the bike, riding along with a brisk breeze, you can see how the grass has sprung up overnight. Here the smell of green and growth ripens in the afternoon warmth and rides along the afternoon wind. There’s something about the light and air and smell. Something has changed.

I don’t know if Spring is actually a season here or just a subtle transition to summer. Everything is now linked to summer. That green grass getting taller and slowly drying into July and August seems more pertinent than a breezy Thursday afternoon in late March. So this is more about feeling and remembering more than seeing. Bike rides tend to do that.

Turning on to K street I remember those early days here, wondering what it would be like. Now I know. Now I know what to look forward to. Now I know what to look for. Someday down the line, some morning, the hermit thrush will be singing outside the window, the fields will be full of daisy, and the season will have played over and over again, day-after-day. Summer will be real. Late March on the coast is a time a change and everything seems to look forward now.