Poetry

Fire Season

When wind blows smoke over the mountains
and the view from my window clouds up,
my cat climbs her tower
to peer at the strange gray
otherworld outside;
when I leave to run an errand,
and enter that gray to walk to my car,
I hope that my cat
believes me intrepid.

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Poetry

3 AM Chant

I sit on the ground,
resting closer to life.
I lie on the ground,
sinking closer to death.
I daydream in bed
and the dreams never come;
if I quiet my head,
then my breath starts to thrum.
When I open my eyes,
it’s time to get moving.
First, I must close them –
oblivion is soothing.

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