Energy and matter ripple out, scattering in all directions; waves of blind intent intersecting, multiplying; all predictable if we knew how it all started, where we’ve been. Unknowing we flail blind, attributing causes without cause, and failing to see patterns emerge, the future unfolding. Sit quietly and listen. Open your eyes and watch. Suspend decisions. … More Scatter

Scar tissue

Sheep on a hillside driven down the slope into pens.  Held in a tight knot. The gate to the run to the ramp to the truck seems like an escape route. This is how it is. This is how it will be. Sheep follow narrow tracks worn into the hills by their ancestors to run … More Scar tissue


The world turns, the wind blows and words bloom under my fingers. Without me the words would be different but the wind would still blow and the world would still turn. Without you the world would be different but I would still be here, words spilling through my fingers, sprinkling the page. Stars wheel the … More Independence


a tree like an enormous oak tree grows in the sea floor, just far enough from the beach to drown before you could reach the lower branches at high tide, the heaving sea too strong. There is a  house in the branches made of wide planks of wood cut from another tree, a house like … More Seahouse


Children call  – On your marks, get set, go –  sandals slap on the concrete as they go racing each other up and down the path in the dusk. So much energy bubbling through small bodies, sandals slapping the earth as it turns, spinning on into the night until the dark sends them indoors. Stars … More Sandals

story 2

inside a house, a man is making a boat to escape a rising tide. The boat is made of paper. The tide is made of tears.

story one

a small boy dressed in red haunts a house looking for a way in. He climbs a fence to peer in a window, then quickly jumps to a crouch, crawls around a corner to peer in another window. They will never let him in. He will never stop trying to get in.


Some of the bones washed in by the waves have words cut into them, etched deep in tiny dense script, stories that won’t die


the birds carry small bones in their beaks, plucked from the cliffs. They carry them out over the rocks and drop them in the surf. The bones keep washing back up on the rocks piling up in clattering heaps at the base of the cliffs