The moon had traveled across the dark canvas of the sky,
Bursting plump and round as a pale white peach,
Pitted and waning to a sodden, softening half,
Slumping to a circlet that slouched on its backside,
Shrinking further still to the tiniest, driest sliver,
Until it finally
Winked out into nothing at all.
“Shit!” Her ankle wobbled as she made her way across Old Towne Cobblestone Bridge. The rain had been brief, but drenching. Temperatures were dropping precipitously.
She’d made sure he was following. Continue reading
Winslow Homer 1893
Winter sun slides beneath the treeline, crosses the final lavender mile home with strips of deep purple, pale magenta. Neither warms this sub-zero trek. Progress marked by the flash of slender ski tips through new-fallen snow, my rasping breath through a strip of wool scarf. Continue reading
Creamy cactus buds, feathered with pink curving petals.
Shy flamingos sparsely shelter in thick, darkly unassuming leaves.
Sun sets, ushering in the cooling desert dawn,
The Queen’s one chance at immortality.
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