hunting in the sharpening air

It is the first snow.
Bright sunlight makes it play red, purple, green--
a shiver sweater on a ladybird.

From his bedroom window
a boy jumps and clutches at her;
hunting in the sharpening air.

She explains she's squirreling away yarn
and sacred caramel hair
and coins
to make herself a brother.

But he only hears a long-lost sound.
A Kirtland Warbler based on her song and call notes,
her black and white wings,
her rounded, yellow breast.

So he coaxes her into a lidded mason jar
with his quiet, seed-filled fingers
and plants her on a shelf.

Katwalk

Kathryn befriends every cat
On our orange, evening walks
Especially those in street gangs

you came 1,742 miles(ish)

I tell you we have mostly sun here.
That fall and winter and early spring are one thing.
That summers make us all die,
slow and syrupy,
like sticks of butter.

But it only takes a few seconds of words
to out all the bad
about this place.
The rest
is cacti and vegan tacos and bikes
and adorable families. 

It's winding, wild trails
cut sometimes by wandering streams.
Highways that are more like hills.
Hills that are more like trees
piled one on top of the other.

Here you can find all the books
and all the tunes
and all the doors held open
even if you're half a parking lot away.

So get your asses
down here.