Cold now. Close to the edge. Almost unbearable. Clouds bunch up and boil down from the north of the white bear. This tree-splitting morning I dream of his fat tracks, the lifesaving suet. I think of summer with its luminous…
Cold now. Close to the edge. Almost unbearable. Clouds bunch up and boil down from the north of the white bear. This tree-splitting morning I dream of his fat tracks, the lifesaving suet. I think of summer with its luminous…
Hello from my winter studio. Just forest today. And me. Thank you for your support of this blog!
The “Wolf Moon” in her brightest fullest self arrives at midnight tonight. Named by Native Americans, I understand. I hear my own hungry wolves in the depths of winter. On Edisto Island, where the vast sky is uninterrupted by street…