Alaskan & Western Reflections

It's winter in South central Alaska. The sun sleeps in on Skilak Lake, rises late. On the Kenai River at about mile 50, trumpeter swans spend the waning days of fall before flying south for the summer. The mountains are white while the spruce trees hold green.

by  Jerry D. McDonnell©2013 I stood on the ego edge of the ocean Owning my place, my space, A world of water on an orb of earth. The tide came in, water like a lover Caressed my calves, then Retreated playfully pulling the sand From beneath my feet. Small fleeting, white foam teased Tickling my ankles, and me, The fool, smiling, shuffling, Thinking I was in charge.

copyright©Jerry D. McDonnell, 2011 Published in Over the Transom, #22, 2011 by Jerry Dale McDonnell Her hair was long past done: a homeless hairdo styled by the falling rain. Rags were far from riches. Shoes were worn Converse canvas. But behind her, firmly gripped in hand, a Louis Vuitton suitcase followed . . . on wheels at that. Her black-plastic, garbage-bag raincoat shining from the wet like patent leather shoes. Her wind-cured skin spoke of an age of maybe old. And all this on Market Street a few blocks shy of the district called financial. San Francisco, the Bay Area. I was history late far in the back of the line behind the Indians and the Mexicans. But I had a history there too. Once upon a time. I watched her plodding down Market Street, slow stepping, eyes down but alert for danger like she’d maybe been doing when the coyotes and foxes shopped in the territory now the habitat of Macy’s and the Mac store . . . maybe back then carrying, or wearing, cured f

Winter is coming to South Central Alaska. The tundra and trumpeter swans have come off their summer nesting grounds and are resting in Anchorage in preparation for their migration south. In September on the Denali Highway snow--initiation dust to the optimist, termination dust to the pessimist--coats the peaks while the caribou migrate across Alaska.