Their worst is the anthem — spit your rage, raise your fists, tear the madness down.

Beliefs drift. Faith seeks warmth beyond the heart’s walls. Winter’s cold hand holds small tragedies. Compassion stares blankly. Good, evil—small seeds. Each moment falls. What are you doing now?

The path went on. It twisted. Strange places. Familiar faces. I passed the stones. The dead wants. The should-have-beens. I walked on. It had been a long walk. The midday heat. It had been good then. Now. The sun rising. The sun setting. That was enough.

Retired sunflowers
petals lay and stems withdrawn
death whispers hello

Tree

The tree had grown
it's fifty-odd years.

A wind had severed its limbs,
cutting half its life away.

Now it stood, not with dignity,
but with the certainty,
that it belonged.

Born from roots in the mud.

Zion National Park