The flush of leaving’s what we notice most— thus, the white glint of a steeple on the ridge across the river under a sky
Adolescent summers, seeking solace, I rode from Reno into Sierra foothills. My horse the yellow of a dried sage flower. The air, bright, seared
The magnolia’s petals are splendidly pink, and the turtles here have lined up on a log that juts over the pond as sunlight falls
I now understand the things I’ve always known: that glass may burst into shards of scathing sobs, but boulders and fortresses show how unbreakable