Mountain Cloud Fog

It's autumn I remember.


The smell of preparation.

Wood chips and 2 cycle exhaust.

Fruit drying in the racks.

Vegetables prepped for canning.

Woodsmoke.

Freshly harvested rows.

Warm blood on the cold snow.


This year more than most I miss the frozen crispness of the mountain in my youth.

Before the world got too warm.

The people too petty, common, inconstant and tractable.

The options too few.

And the future too predictable and noisome.





This world is poison.

And it's killing us slowly.