First it was fall, then it wasn't. Happy New Year



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Regretful Death

Published in Cirque, Vol. 7, No. 2; 2016 www.cirquejournal.com by  Jerry Dale McDonnell Above the routine of the rasping, cutting sound of the crosscut saw the noise and demeanor of the late-September afternoon woods changed. We didn't immediately quantify the change. We just knew it changed. The odor of standing pine and fir, of sawdust and fresh cut wood, the light dampness of the air, the gurgling water in the creek dancing around rocks all remained, but something had changed. Even the camp robbing Gray jays in the trees were on alert.   Living in the woods, paying attention is just the way of things. Sounds, smells, clouds, the wind, changes in plants and trees, migration and habits of animals are like news on the radio. In the timber-pole corral our lead and riding horses were agitated, which is a blip on the radar. Joker, the smallest, but oldest and wisest horse of the herd snorted, laid its ears back briefly then spun and jumped to the other side of ...
Read more

Alaska images of Fall.

Image
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.
Read more

Louis Vuitton in Deer Hide, How Long Have I Been Gone?

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, cur...
Read more