This heron – hunched atop a power pole two hours south of Palamos- She does not belong here. Jackrabbits, yes, bounders. In the mornings they lick dew from prickly pears. Coyotes, thin and hot and brown as wind....
Read MoreIn the hours before it falls in earnest
snow is nothing but a song half-written
and anxious to be what it becomes.
Sleep on strange mattresses. Wake up too early And massage unfamiliar knots from your back, The product of unfamiliar lumps and errant springs. Disturb your night with oddly scented sheets and new thread counts. Forget a...
Read MoreLeave your troubles at the borders of the thirsty country –
here, pile them on this cairn to mark the way
for other travelers, and put your clothes there too –
