Passing graffiti in the desert, I wonder, who are the artists?
What person came to this barren, unforgiving land where one can drive for hours without passing a house, a business, another human—and decided to make their mark here in the middle of nothing?
Much later I realized, we are all artists of one kind or another but some of us are brave enough to paint the desert.
Downpour in the sunshine
A blue-eyed horse
Shooting stars in the city
Watching an eagle fly
Spotting a wolf in the wilderness
The northern lights
A red moon
Finding an iridescent feather
Are you racing down at dawn to flee a scorching fire—
or leaping up at twilight to meet a burning lover?
morning toast
the words “archery” and “acrid”
black cherries
summer storm clouds
old photographs
the sound of crows
purple roses
the time — 11:11
wooden boxes
postcards
silver bracelets
long good-byes
campfires
dreams of flying
used book stores
windy nights
chocolate
an old pair of jeans
pencil cases
helvetica and garamond
Walking along the rail tracks,
reckless empowerment grips me—
if I really wanted to, I could jump a train.
I start to count the ties,
lose track, and head back home.
Barges and mallards,
herons and mayflies,
grey geese and thistles
follow the river against the current.
They make it look so easy.
The Goldfinch
by Donna Tartt
This book is a work of art. Truly meant to be read and savored.
Even if you stand very still, it will find you.
Labyrinth in the fog.
Looking for direction.
Your grip is cold,
your breath is warm.
I will follow it home.
Dark clouds looming low today.
Wishing I could coat everything
in a layer of sprinkles.
spanishwoods 