december, leaves, photography, writing

by the light of the moon

Tall oak trees stretch into shadows. Long shadows that sweep all the way down the hill, and across the yard. Giant shadows from towering trees.

The white light of the moon, though, finds its way past the shadows and scatters its magic. Its matte cottony glow blankets the leafy ground, reaches up into the house, and comes to rest on the window sill in front of me.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A full moon on a clear winter night, after the trees have dropped their leaves, has its own special charm. One I’ve never captured well in a picture. The ground was so white I thought we had a fresh round of snowfall.


life, music, non-fiction, writing

catch a falling star

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket.
Never let it fade away .
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket.
Save it for a rainy day.

– Perry Como –
written by Paul Vance and Lee Pockriss

An old beautiful song. One of those songs you find yourself humming.

When I was in grade school, there was a boy in my grade who had a wonderful singing voice. He was a quiet boy, and good looking. One of the best looking boys in class. I was only seven or eight, too young to have crushes, but even then I knew he was ‘cute’.

This was a Catholic school, and our teachers were nuns. We were getting ready for a performance, a concert for our parents, I suppose. All the class was to sing as a group. But this boy, the one with the singing voice, would sing this song by himself. Sister would, very nicely, give the rest of the class an assignment. I think she asked us to draw a picture. It was clear, even to a young kid, that she needed time to help this boy practice. We didn’t mind. Drawing pictures is fun enough for a second-grader. And we listened to him sing. This song, over and over. I don’t remember anything about the performance, just his practicing.

This is where we decide as writers if we want to stick with a sweet tender memory, or do we want reality. The reality is this boy died when we were both around 18. We weren’t close friends, but when you’re 18, you don’t expect someone you went to school with to die. But he did. I hardly remember anything about him in high school, but what I always remember, every time I hear that song, every time I think of that song, is him singing that song, with his sweet young voice, when we were both children. And me sitting at my desk, drawing a picture.



fall, sky, writing

the time of the season

Last night I looked up in the sky, and saw a tiny light flicker, like a firefly, way too late for the party.

I waited….

….for another flicker.


So I moved my head this way and that, and stretched my neck to see more of the sky. Suddenly there were many tiny lights.

Ahh, stars of course, playing hide n’ seek with what’s left on the tall trees outside my window.

In July, August…you wouldn’t see stars in that part of the sky. You’d see the dark shadow of leaves. But we’re moving fast towards winter.

Cold nights. Leafless trees.


life, photography, prose, writing


It starts with a raised eyebrow, a sigh, a glow.
Moments that fizz and ferment and sparkle.

Lobes fire up a conversation of thoughts and blurred images
in the nooks and crannies of the mind.
And far below the surface,
deep in the richest layers of our human-ness,
a sensory explosion of emotion flares.

The subtle living tension of the soul.


green, life, personal writing, photo, rural, writing

outside the window

Inside, confined, my seat belt tugging. Cool air moving, touching my face. I turn to the right, to the view outside. A wooden fence that went on forever and lush green grass clover countryside.

A light misty rain.

And a fast moving glimpse of today.

[I wasn’t driving, just aimed and clicked.]


green, life, nature, photo, prose, woods, writing


Random, careless. Trunks scattered helter skelter. You can’t help but wonder how it felt here when these tall trees came down. The ground shook, for sure. But look around. Saplings sprouting from felled logs. Leafy vines winding a tangled trail over it all. A beautiful, wild, living, thriving, Jumanji-style, bright green mess.


life, personal writing, photo, photography, poem, prose, summer, writing

morning coffee on the back porch

your bothered sigh 
another day

a squeak 
a bang

sliding doors

nearby voices fading far
muffled jumble
meaningless words

engines and brakes 
thumps and car doors
invisible airplane overhead purr

a singular 
gnarling bark 

someone’s busy outdoor chores


but wind and birds and bugs silence


a swishing  swirl
swiftly spinning  
bicycle wheels

one more sip, your final gulp
sun up sounds
summer’s day waking up