by underswansea


The canals are filling with run off. The sweetgrass is up with seed. It’s low, only eight or ten inches high. The outer leaves need to mature before it will be ready to braid.

Many paths to the river. Made by muskrats and beaver. It looks like they have been dragging the dead through the scrub, chewing off trees, sliding down the mud, like it’s a game of it.

The trees are up to hiding the sun. Geese bark back at dogs. The Killdeer choose to lead threats away on mismatched wings. A tangled flap without reason until the coyote chases, hypnotized, away from it’s nest.


The rain is good for the leaves and grass.

Plenty of snow in the mountains. Plenty of run off yet.


Once old you forget about the vulnerability of young. An old grizzly head bunted a young one into the river. The river was fast. The young one pulled itself onto a sloughed bank. It shook itself off. The old bear looked on, turning towards the bank, neither glad nor sad.


Once old you forget your power. The strength of your hands. You forget the ability to lead. It’s much easier to hurt.