"the thing with feathers" is what Emily Dickinson called Hope But methinks it's made of rocks you soared above and then swooped down allowed them to dazzle you applying the precision vision of a hawk with the time to scour scree fields on a hike one sunny September raising up broad shoulders that bear profound loads hoofed piles of rocks down a mountain. and that one rock, especially jaggy and with just a sprig of goat hair so it could remind us what was I supposed to remember? Bare shoulders? Cashmere? Mountain goats or a summit? Views or descents? But that wasn't it. Recognition not yet flashing... Was there a note on the back of my hand, a thread tied 'round my finger, an Expo marker phrase on my mirror? Perhaps there was nothing but a golden glint in your eye the memory of which was light as a feather with wisdom of 1861 or 2005 a dog ear in time creasing the distance bending across an event horizon to now 2020 a time that confounds all expectatio
I ski, teach, parent, write, read, swim, adventure. I get lost in my own mind, chewing on words and images. Sometimes something good comes out.