Facing every direction
I hold up outstretched hands
Against endless dark lines of trees
Silhouetted by the reflection
Of young spring sunlight
On winter’s last icy snow
The trail packed and pock-marked
Owls begin to call
With voices like haunted women
And my feet find little purchase
As I run
Along the slick path
Alone
On the Dole
Up in the Air
Amen.
“The mountains my religion, trees like sentient apostles, rivers my blood, and dirt my body. It is in contentious and aggravated topography that I feel gladness. Amen.” -Brian Leahy
Dry Falls
First of a Few
Wallace Falls
Untitled
All Kinds
On Top of Bandera
NATURE IS NEVER SPENT 