Magic is at work when a forest burns without smoke, glowing green, like fireflies on a summer night. 'Foxfire', The Mushroom Poems

By the cold lake fishermen sit umbrellas raised against the breeze, all maggot boxes and reels, with rods that stitch lake edge to shore. 'Cow Green' , Living with Mountains

Above the sea we traverse ridged holds on ancient limestone. The day is blue, warm. Innocent we live at the edge of time, lightly clad as for the garden. 'Snapshots', Living with Mountains

You reel me in jangling heaps of gear, wide-faced with space below. This is how obsession begins, with the heady smell of melting wax. 'Face Climb', Living with Mountains