The Waxing Moon: Yukon river

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Yukon river

8 comments:

Rob-bear said...: Ah, yes. The Yukon at it's finest.; December 11, 2011
RachelW said...: There's nothing like the frost from the river, ice fog and the colour of the winter sky.; December 11, 2011
Scrappy Wolf said...: I was in the woods watching you with my big eyes and big heart. Lovely photo...Aaaa Wolfff ;); December 11, 2011
RachelW said...: Ahh, now that's a proper wolf... ;) I hope it was one of your domesticated cousins and not you who defecated on the trail! Someone left some lovely presents for the mayor.; December 12, 2011
Scrappy Wolf said...: This wolf does not eat the same foods as my domesticated cousins (though I might eat one of my cousins from time-to-time ;), and the poo-poo left behind will indicate who ate what . As for the mayor, hmm.; December 20, 2011
Scrappy Wolf said...: RW, the wildness of my soul is watching you; I see you...Ah Woo-woo-woo-woo ;); December 29, 2011
Da Bawss said...: Did you hear my howl today? Did I startle you in any way? Eh?; January 01, 2012
RachelW said...: Bawss! Look out behind you; there is an eagle! Oops too late.... :<; January 02, 2012

This place is a story

The Waxing Moon was a thin book, well-worn and poorly bound, spine inexpertly repaired with tape. After school, sheltered by the stacks of the public library, the children secretly read spells from the book, never daring to borrow it. It was full of mysteries: spells that disappeared warts with knotted red string and dripping eaves; how to become invisible by placing amethyst under the tongue; stranger things involving cat bones. One day, the book was gone, and I always wondered which one of us had taken it. I'm pretty sure it wasn't me.

Coyote Grief

Sometimes the night stills,
hardens, and the tight stars choke
and fall to flat earth,
dead embers. The sky
is no longer black, dim gray.

Coyote's sadness
is deeper than hope.

She snuffs at dead stars amazed,
confused, wants to put
them back, cannot reach
that high, to the dim flat sky.
They won't burn again.

This beautiful, sad poem was written by Christopher in response to my poem Without memorial. It was too lovely to remain buried in the comments, so I put it here on my windowsill, where the sunlight may fall across the words to heal Coyote's grief.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Yukon river

8 comments:

This place is a story

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