In snowless winter woods,
tree trunk skeletons
raise brown branches
toward grey skies suspended
softly inches above.
Oaks cling to their few
remaining dry dead leaves,
like a mother, aware too soon
her children will be lost.
Under foot, crunch of leaves
mold into the feel of soft mulch
as dog and human wind their way
through the forest maze
of deer trails and undergrowth.
Wet water creek burbles past,
rushing downhill joining stream,
then river. They follow,
air damp, breath visible.
It is in March I forget how hot
and airless the back seat of my parents
two-door, un air conditioned 1955 Pontiac
was as we drove to our new desert home.
In March desert air changes from dust to green,
the sun not murderous but soft, makes ocotillos bloom.
In summer for a respite from the heat we spent
weekends in Prescott surrounded by…
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