In the desert,the tiny, golden moleswims across sand dunes,paddling hard with broad claws.He zips across the barren terrain,like a tumbleweed,diving deep now and thento cool

The hidden life in melistens for the voices of the trees.They are singing, somewhere deep beneaththe silver skin of old beech treessounding roots that holdthe

This minor key carries usAcross the floor, around the roomNot minding a bit if we can’t fly.God’s happy with us for beingOld. Photo by Peter

A green tablecloth covers the three pushed together tables.Glass pitchers of water, lemonade, and chocolate milksit on the adult’s end.Ham buns, butter, fried beans,strawberries from

A bird’s soft, breast-feather driftswith the falling snowand settles on the fresh layer of white.The fine feather-wisps curve upwardlike cupped hands in meditationopen to the

Black flies swarm in the horrid heat,circle the Nuer mother and her two daughterslying in the sub-Saharan dust of Watt.Knobby knees stick out of skeletal

how forgiveness feels:like the game starts over0-0and this time I won’t keep score how forgiveness looks:a stoplight turns from red to greenI walk into the

write a poem, He saysI can feel His hand on mine but I have no poem to writeexcept He opens my mind I wish to

A skein and a gaggle each requiresmore than one bird. When it joinsa group, what will the nomenclaturefor my soul become, when no longerearthbound but