a house on the ridge caught fire in the middle of the night, a blazing brand burned down to cinders beneath the pine trees.

everyone says it must have been a meth lab

the buckeye flowers have darkened, wilted in the heat, and their overripe perfume hangs heavy in the air.

the lazy turning of bees

proving the impossible, or that the possible, isn’t.

ferns and the needles dropped, the road runs red beneath the pine trees, the stagecoach to silver mines