It is the apex of summer. Trees celebrate. The water is wide and even. Sailboats are in casual stride up towards Isle Royale or across to the Apostles. It is a time of play, of resurgence, of deft companionship and outrageous melody. But one day soon, appearing, couched in the grass or in the bevy of tree canopy, a speckled leaf will appear, orange and sometimes yellow. It will shout the coming of autumn, the change in character, the disruption of joy and relaxed candor. As suddenly, life will become more serious, more deliberate, more sober. While not there yet, the seasons will announce a chilling amplitude. Ducks foraging will be alerted to soon migration. Beavers might pick up the pace.

Cry of the Heart

We search the margins of the world for a returning voice. We ply, in the deepest parts of the night, for starships to carry us, born upon the winds of magic, to deeper resolve. We long for the credible voice, for the echoes return, for the whisper of light, for dawn’s reassuring. We take part in mystery often only in words, sorry substitutes for matters of the heart. We live for the silences of the inner worlds to break. To make known our vague and aching miseries, our arching fears, the trembling question, the extended sadness. We wish for a resolved chord, Drumbeats that will not fail us, smoke from fires from rocky plateaus set far out in the distant hills. We suspect silence and absence.

The Ancient Power of Stone

Habits set in. Fierce. Moods overcome us, Daunting and difficult. Fires are combustible in our relationships. Heartbreaking. Rocks that will not move. Insurmountable, we say. Stony outcroppings like fortresses against the wind. To break them down, impossible. To challenge them, the devil’s deceit. To break with the past, a tedious effort, to reshape our future, imaginations true test. Great Heartbeat; waves, wash over us. By the drop, challenge old assumptions. Reshape the land with the small and relegated. Define us by the inter-blended waves, wave upon wave, water warrior upon water warrior. The victory of the insignificant, the cessation of doubt, wrought upon a stubborn, defiant coast. T


We are fevered by Time’s Insistence, Playing us, turning and teasing us, advising us, Life put on hold. Past rushes to Future. Future is impatient Until the Past is remembered. But still, around me are the white and yellow, orange and blue of retreating flowers. They will not wait for my poor reflections. They bathe in sunlight now, indifferent to my vague and empty introspections. They invite notice. They shout for me to see. They are not a winter postlude but summer’s full force of glory, still active and alive. All around faded wildflowers, gathering all their spirit into seed-pods, equally as beautiful when you see not dullness and un-refinement but potential and stored excess. They too

Lake Superior: Moods of the Country / Moods of Mine.

Today the rains came to interrupt my wood-splitting. One cup of coffee later, they are still with me. It appears rain has settled in for a while. Yesterday, I had that kind of dampened mood, much like today's weather. Lots of overcast and grey, the window panes flirting with rain droplets. What to make of the two? 1. So much depends on PERSPECTIVE. If I decide rain is bad (or depressing or a disaster to my day's plans) then today is a disappointment and a bother. If I decide rain has its own kind of ethereal beauty and enhances the landscape, then I will be content and happy with this change. 2. How wedded / welded am I to my GOALS? Each of us has our ideas about whether things happen on sch

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