Spooked
We break into the boarded-up old hospital to creep through the halls at dusk like ghosts tiptoeing over broken planks stained mattresses in faded ticking here an empty syringe there dust balls mouse droppings in a flurry of fox-marked papers lists of names dates medicine meals grime reflected in grey haze over jagged windowpanes our teenage eyes undimmed by what’s to come we crawl back outside still full of life.
the slow screech
of a barn owl
pinpricks of star
Eutierra
Mornings have become a precious time of day. I wake long before anyone else, allowing me to splash cold water on my face and meditate before the next body stirs. I then wake my daughter, feed and change her, and together we read a morning newsletter as the sky starts to blush. I'm selective in what I voice aloud, as it doesn't feel right to speak of oppressive regimes or world hunger before she can even speak herself. Instead, I share only the light, magical stuff—like how the Iñupiat have a term, kunguk, for a certain brightness on the horizon that suggests the presence of sea ice.
bird bath buddha
the entire sky
threatening rain