No trespassing,the sign says,and the gate looks unfriendly,though trees behindbeckon brightly on green hillsshadowing their arching armson velvet grass.So will someone come,I ask,to arrest us?snatch camera from our hands,lock us up,handcuffed,for shooting wildlyat the...

Some days wake you in a mist,unsure of where you are.No trees mark your pathwith sun and shadow,or lake reflect an open sky.So you have to pull it outfrom deep inside,that imageof how you want to be—dressed in mountain gearand hiking boots,curling feathers—those...

I love this moment ofcrackling spring,when bare treesbegin to hum,buds start to wakeand turn over just a biton their branches,and daffodils,looking for light,unfurl yellow pennantsdrooping with morning rain,and on the roses,pruned back to weathered wood,buds swell...