Sensing the interconnectedness of language and ideas. Rust grows its red beard aboard the ark. Among the planks with foot rot. From the crowded occupation of metal and wood,. Bags of cement or compost,. Unused rolls of chicken fence mesh breathing,. Obsolete workshop machinery in stasis,.

In like a fox in the night. Posted in Art and Observation. Who would have thought we humans. Our tenacious, mineral selves. I am thinking of you everyday as. I make sawdust in the basement. Sanding shelves for my husband. Who makes granite dust in the quarry.

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Thanks to my cousin Mary for thee title. Our Father of the Caynon. Picture for a Sunday Afternoon. Our Father of the Caynon. Picture for a Sunday Afternoon. Nothing to Say and Saying it. Create a free website or blog at WordPress.

What first got my attention. When looking for the spark. That lit the pyre of generational change. The eyes of the outside world. It is only the same action on repeat. Or travesty of non compliance. The newly risen speaking in the old tongue. Barred the gates to you.

Grass shifts, with slight clicks,. The outpost of my silence. Freeze, or look away. Song of painted reed-frogs lost.

Photogaphs by Ethel Mortenson Davis. Elk and Big Horn Sheep in a Field. A Stream in the San Juan Mountains. Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis. Tagged as elk and big horn sheep. Untitled Town Book and Author Festival. My Speakers Sessions, Thomas Davis.

A two-foot tube of secrets. With a bunch of keys. 1 November 2011 3 Comments. A Charm Against Ye Knavish Trick-or-Treaters. Get ye hence, touch not this door,. Retrace thy steps, disturb no more. Our sweet repose at close of day. Thou art not welcome, go thy way.