"The Path Of Least Resistance Is What Makes The River Crooked"
sitting around
not being noticed
I felt compelled to spend some time
with the drowsy river
make tea and carve the measurement of time
only several cigarettes can afford
to spend alone with it
listen to it’s groaning
about it’s health and that it’s
barely scraping a living from its banks
but yet still it flows
wanted to say goodbye to another October
which has its own obsessive issues bouncing its leg
and wanting to repeat and repeat
at a more frequent pace.
When the cold cuts a bleed from the skin there’s no liquor better than the crunch of snow under snowshoe. Bundled and wrapped, the faint flirt of sun fondling eyelids and the hoof of late winter stomping plumes from your throat. Nothing seems more fitting than a cup of tea under its thawing thumb. Cutting trail, shoveling camp, carving kitchen from snow above the silence of ice edging into river and the creak of tree leaning into the swing of a warm hammock.
Crooked Blue Line 
