We walked barefoot in the snow

I prefer writing with shoes on my feet.

My insistent sketching means that I’ll never have to write a song or poem about birds.

Fine by me, they do it on their own.

Besides I’m not much for writing songs anyway.


I took my shoes off when I caught word the ship was sinking.

and turned up the radio.

A woman was singing.


I put my boots on before stepping into the cold morning snow.

Got in the car and turned up the heater.

No one sang a note.


I walked a mile in her moccasins and could finally look myself in the eye again.

And over the dusty speakers, a voice grey with ages sang a final verse,

“…Hoping love would not¬†forsake the days that lie between, lie between”.


The crow won’t fly.

Crow sits on a pen drawn branch.

Crow sits on a pen drawn branch.

I made this with a couple pens the other evening. I had the radio on and it played a song I liked a long time ago.

I enjoying the crows I see around town. This morning on my way to work I watched one dropping a walnut from the power lines above into the street below. His crow friends were watching and chattering loudly. All eyeing up his bounty, waiting for a car to unlock the goods. As soon as it did all alliances were voided in the chase for survival. Such as the deeds are all ways done day to day, whether we see it or not.

I see a lot of human traits in the crows around here and everywhere I’ve traveled. They chase each other like children on a playground. Holler loudly at passer byers like a drunk down town. Stand stoic like a poet lost in thought.

They embody well the poems with wings I strive to pin down on a page. Black as the night, but full of color.