if one mood might be blamed on a coworker’s backhand, the next could easily be the fault of ducklings. each a handful only of dandelion-colored puff streaked in shades of fading brown, all of it sticking out in all directions to catch in the sunlight, so many miniature mad scientists milling about a pristine surface, all reaching for snacks mouth-first. the grown female leading this parade of purity squawks consistently, not constantly. she even takes the time to dip, ploop, head down tail up, white rump exposed to the whole neighborhood, to grab her own vittles from the well of manna on which her charges float. for each call she makes, a few coke spoon-sized bills open in response, sending forth weirdly deep, yet peeps, of pubescent change. one minute meanderer, brave or unknowing, strays a little further, chasing bugs across the silken prairie of pond beyond the dozen feet of radius around their leader to which the other buoyant fuzzballs seem to adhere. the abiding calm of the surface on which these fowls float is only mildly and infrequently disturbed by the propellers of a duckling’s full speed, usually when it finds itself further from its family than expected. this invariably provokes a couple siblings to rev up as well, for maybe no cause but fun, their tiny webbed orange paddles sprinting along the surface, fluffing up the water around them and leaving wakes only a mouse might ride. steadily around the glaze too are fish jumping toward flying treats just at the upper plane of their existence, rippling not quite close enough to collide with any of the duckling’s disturbances, all soft across the grey green reflections of mountain. swooping swinging dropping bow and arrow silhouettes of swallows toward the buzzing bug feast they share with the fish, the line neither species can breach favored by the suicidal spirit of insects. around the pond, up the mountains, for miles all that’s visible widely are shades of aspen and evergreen and stone. several and uncountable stands of pale, narrow trunks, their heights a yellow-green you thought only crayons could be, narrow leaves a cloud of color from this distance, the way you imagine Holi. a nearby stand of evergreen that must be absolutely enormous, their branches so easily visible, taller than the aspen with broad, red-caramel stalks supporting layers of thick, horizontal limbs covered in blankets of deep, rich emerald. royalty. between these two arboreal marvels, dark rock crumbles in all shapes, piecemeal stumbling at invisible speeds, dawdling precariously, the demand of gravity nearly ineffectual. the pattern unfathomable. all of this under a broad, blue sky complemented by only the most casual of passing clouds. ultimately, gratefully: this scene is a whole mood.

Each state has its own way of saying a thing. Colorado says “Open Range” where Idaho tells a driver “Watch For Stock” and Wyoming, to my great amusement, “Loose Stock”. Oregon has a sign that just says “Slides” which sounds fun, while elsewhere there’s simply a drawing to precisely differentiate what kind of slide. “Watch for Falling Rocks” is a real one. I’ve got a “Watch For Rocks” in my neighborhood—somehow less intimidating. Yesterday I passed a sign with a similar warning in Idaho. I don’t remember it precisely and I’m sorry about that because it was a worthy sign to heed. On a four lane mountain road with a speed limit of 65, I had to make a counter-intuitive decision in order to avoid the rockslide that had tumbled and strewn all the way across the road. Miraculously there was no oncoming traffic. The broad scattering was mostly of hindrances just smaller than soccer balls, and terrifying angular. As I neared the chunks of stone with my low-clearance front wheel drive, I realized my safe passage would be further across. Ultimately I drove diagonally over three lanes, all the way to the pebbles I could confidently cover. Once past the stones, I immediately hit the gas and scooted with haste back to my side of the mountain road.

Many miles later I was still in still in Idaho, along a not-dissimilar two-lane, 65MPH road. With the Salmon River on my right I spied another obstacle big enough to harm my car, way up ahead in my lane. It moved and I, still driving toward it, more cautiously now, assumed it bent to nibble carrion. There were two… oh! Not vultures with food, but geese! With goslings! Dead ahead. I braked hard, honking at the birds. The already uneasy group scattered confusedly, some into the opposite lane. I was stopped now on the river side and from the other direction came three trucks, the first and last of which were semis. These, I knew, could cause so much more damage in stopping for birds than if they didn’t, and I knew my standstill would cause some indecision. I was luckily alone in my lane, hazard lights on, hoping the birds would see safety to the river on my side. Somehow the first truck driver managed to slow and swerve just enough as it approached the feathered disarray, taking advantage of what shoulder was available. I watched as, from just beside that giant vehicle, all the little yellow babies went tumbling in its wake. They bounced and rolled back into my lane, where with my foot still on the brake I watched, enthralled by the chaos of fluffy goslings scattering across the pavement before me like a bag of new stuffed toys just shaken empty. Suddenly the goose parents sprang out of panic and into action, landing behind their babies to usher them. Wings wide, these two brave parents hastened their befuddled, but seemingly unharmed, brood. The last semi picked up speed as it straightened itself from where it had preemptively swerved, probably cursing the birds. In seconds, the whole fowl family was safely on the bank of the Salmon River. Wishing them well, I drove on. I don’t know any variations on, “Watch For Wildlife”, but I don’t mind making way for goslings.

There was rain the in night and the morning began with welcoming, cool greys. Someone howling as the sun arrived. Howling as I stood tall to stretch and blink at the sodden clouds parting. The animal, as well as the clouds, found something else to do by the time a work crew showed up to clean trash from the riverside here. Maybe two dozen men in orange vests, garbage bags strapped to their belts and teamwork in their spirits, joking with each other in Spanish, English, spanglish, and I, parked directly in their path. They came toward me deliberate and wary, leaving plenty of space, making themselves small. The men avoid me, though I note that none ignore me entirely. I had been standing here and so I greet them first, looking each right in the eye as I do all unknown creatures. Like most animals, most of these ignored me and went about their business. They are humans though, and a few respond almost sheepishly, with gruff hellos and good mornings. One guy in particular smiled wide and genuine, looking relieved, but didn’t make a sound. I wonder if I reminded him of someone. Los hombres siguen y me pasan, cuando veo las camisetas naranjas en la espalda dicen “Prison Work Crew”. I watch them walk away along the shoreline in their amiable organized group. Several of these punished men continue to notice me for a while, too. As they fade from my hearing, their vests remaining beacons of their labor, a far-off train sounds its approach with several gloriously muffled cries of the horn. The day begun.

is it that your love is superficial? the world gives back what you give? two decades after your death it won’t matter that you’d lived. I want to offer hope, but my stores been dwindling a while. I dreamed I could be genuine but I’m gonna fake this smile. if you know someone lonely maybe send them a cute pic. we got thru a pandemic. it’s from loneliness we’re sick.

I have my panties on now. Up since 3AM I’ve been and not by choice. Though I suppose my body’s choosing is mine, in a way. The birds started up at 4, keeping each other company in the dark while I eavesdropped. The depths of dark faded to grey as I considered the countless ignorant exclusions, and that I am a teacher of children, not men. Old wounds act up in environments seeded with promises that never even sprout, much less bear fruit. Desires spoken but never pursued, like a half-built treehouse that was supposed to be a birthday present, unfinished and unsafe. A Uinta National Forest sign told me the hot springs is cooled by snowmelt still, thus my bathing suit rendered useless. Then, over green hills and snowy peaks—aux même temps!—came a proud bleached sun to relight spring. I changed my clothes and wondered about brotherhood. Later I used my pancakes to sop up my egg while the kid at the next table told her mother, “It sucks to suck.” The dad clapped back fast: “You would know.” I wondered then what it’s like having a dad who defends a mom, plays with his daughter. I read the same page several times over.

Moving on in every way, I found the road again and nearly drove off of it wondering if there were scrawny but somehow healthy-looking donkeys scattered in a lush and rocky field. I reasoned that illegal stopping is more legal than wrecking. Turns out shorn sheep look like weird grey deer. I continued driving, happily guzzling enough water to warrant a stop at every rest area. One had parked a twin Prius (to my Sorcha) sporting a little bandaid in the same front passenger side fender spot. How endearing, and strangely reassuring. Utterly by chance, and on a different highway, I stepped into the rest stop bathroom stall that has my favorite graffiti, which had been responded to poorly but not covered. I went to get my sharpie.

I missed many years of drought; arrived now is green brilliance the way leprechauns like it, amid so many floods like mirrors for mountains. This canvas of emerald with hints of yellow, sometimes teal, interspersed with stone and bold pointillist flecks—no pastels—in bunches of pink, purple, yellow, orange, red, blue. Every once in a while a watery smooth looking glass featuring inverted peaks interrupts this stunning landscape. I have been awake for twelve hours now, as the sun peeks through spring showers bursting quick and heavy, and welcome.

Toute aux même temps.

living alone has recently freaked me out for the first time. okay yeah i did need moral support at one point long ago when it was me or the bug. when i’ve not had a friend on hand, i’ve handled things. indeed, i once began then extinguished a small house fire with only a cat as witness. (RIP Cleo, super unrelated) but last week i painfully strained my thumb opening something. the thing got opened, at the ever-rising cost of the numerous successive containers i’ve stressed out my hands against since. not to mention the real ego boost of having to admit any truth about this injury when hiking, biking, climbing, and rafting are all part of our daily lives. how the fuck, you might ask, when all of that is part of your “daily life”, was this actually the injury? i will tell you: it is aging, my child. time on the planet. you might not have been bothered by any fears for a while: prepare yourself to live suspiciously. even a blueberry can come for me now, living alone. there’s no cat to eat me here. leave my body for the birds.

I’m grateful for my single cricket, and to Viv, who taught me to notice. For the great pale streak of fur that dashed through the nighttime across my path, then crouched where I couldn’t find it before rushing by again as I searched. The animal was silent, and I sneaked around a corner to spy it finally make its fluffy escape into the dark. I’m glad I told the sky my plans. Much more so when I caught it responding in quick streaks. Plans went, and well enough, then I returned home. A tree-sized burst of rich magenta blooms had appeared, bold and fragrant, in my absence. Tonight the cricket is hosting a whole bunch of friends.

I’m kicking you out if you aren’t gone by morning, I say to the poop stuck at the bowl’s most crucial, filthy point. There’s nothing cute about this but I jest, and I fight the urge to waste one of my precious few remaining evening nicotine buzzes on cleaning a fucking toilet. This particular turd can wait til morning. I’ll go ahead and brush my shoulders off besides, once that shitter is sparkling.

I was exhausted and glad to pull up to mindfulness class, arriving early, I thought, to a room full of people I hardly know whose presence there delighted me. Turns out I was late. Our activity this fourth week was to listen, and quietly hold space. It made me clammy and teary with too much feeling. I was exhausted and glad to pull away from mindfulness class at its conclusion.

I visited my post office box to empty it in case anything comes for whoever I am. This week’s catalog proclaiming womanhood, me again feeling a familiar pang of fear for the women who have owned this box before. May all of their boxes be healthier than this one stuffed with spandex and shapewear; there’s no room to breathe in the shame and synthetic of it all. Sometimes I pretend that Susan Hughes is a trans woman who when she lived in this tiny southwestern town was so closeted and denied as to invest in this doubling down of contempt. It’s nearly June and I dream of Susan, whoever she is, out there living with pride.

I know better, claro, but refuse to sulk about anything I cannot verify. Indeed, I would like to refuse to do anything about anything I cannot verify. In this I will endeavor. I can be completely sure of my own hunger now though, and want of nicotine. Things I’m trying to manage that refuse to obey. Here of course I must include my old narratives, so perfectly coiffed by years of repetition as to seem docile most of the time. Wolves in sheep’s clothing, though I wonder whether I could get sheep in line, either.

Today a white straight male colleague my age gave me space to address difficult feelings about a complex occasion. I said I felt like I was whining and he put a hand up, “I’ve gotta stop you right there. This is not whining.” A moment too wild for any of my own dreams.

Becoming oneself is like this.

I let them break my heart repeatedly. what do we know of love. she takes the beating regularly to keep her brother unharmed. he dialed 911 not knowing it was friends. they’ve gotta go to court now. is that better, in the end? use the tweezers on the splinter. I’ll drive to therapy. among the concepts undefined: love, and family.

My sunkissed nose and pale arms boast of winter’s farewell; we sweat now, in our wetsuits. Have you ever seen a Great Blue heron standing near its nest? Standing. In a tree. A Great Blue heron. Then, four adults near two nests just as we notice they swoop away. We can hear their wingbeats from here. These are rookeries along the Dolores River, which this year is brimming over pathways and into basements. This full waterway carries us ten miles per hour so that sometimes we can’t avoid running into the myriad wooden debris that has been washing down from mountains, our journeys combining on impact. Or the swamped young willow sprouts just reaching up out of the water, our boat adding injury to their insult. The breeze is warm in the canyon now and I can steer the rudder alright. We pull over in an eddy to eat lunch in the grass, spreading our life jackets for picnic blankets. One kid asks the group, “What’s your favorite day of the year?” And the lead teacher answers, “May 25, the last day of school.” Everyone appreciates this with a carefree kind of laughter. We have braved cold waters and now we enjoy the rewards of warmer days. There’s nothing like a bus load of sleeping teenagers heading home.

we used to flail to punk rock now we only sing the blues. he used to tell them stories now he only reads the news. I been trying to scoot closer but I know this is a cliff. if both sides want connection then who would be at risk. practicing forgiveness has found you in isolation. there’s no room for in-laws on their family vacation. do we tell them everything or let them realize. relentless desert wind gets real rough on the eyes. he didn’t understand what their conflict was about. when you’re done in there I’ll be right outside when you come out.

in pre-dawn slumber a whiny chortle is unconsciously overheard, to which the brain responds, “piñon or scrub jay?” drowsily unvoiced, as sleep returns to duty

they told me all the art they love; I didn’t make the list. a smile just for me was tucked between each little kiss. I don’t plan on being quiet just cuz his dad’s around. she said “he’s a riot” and her eye roll was profound. if staying still gets tedious you might pack the car again. forget those lovers baby, what you need is a friend.

you realize it’s a locked door that you might fear the most. they sing of a jolly good fellow but we’re disinclined to toast. the way fairy tales were horror so too some memories. you were born for bravery but learned well fawn and freeze. you’re still self-medicating and you know it ain’t a fix. you dream of all the times you should’ve kicked them in the dicks. we’re not wary of their actual strength, but who’s gonna believe. if I learn to wield a weapon can I save myself this grief?

Just there next to me on the neighbor’s fence, a thrush, hunting and alighting again.

Across a field and near the river, a family of elk.

There were three different great blue heron, all at very near distances in varied states of motion. Wide wings keeping the bird alight near the horizon or flapping a bit to help a hop downriver, the last was still, blending in, hunting in the water.

Cows and calves. Sheep and lambs. The neighbor puppy next to the school likes to get belly rubs and give kisses through the fence.

A golden eagle. So broad and bold soaring very near the earth for its size, but easily, gracefully. You’d imagine it’s wings would touch the ground on their downswing but the bird knows better. In this way we were granted a view of the eagle’s glorious, broad, golden brown back, wingtip to wingtip.

I haven’t seen fields this broad and green in months. If you want the music turned down you’ll be asking more than once. Did you see the golden eagle at eye level, broad and wide? There ain’t freedom to speak of if we spend our lives inside.

She’s got ice in her name, on her neck, in her veins. Her solid state comes naturally; mine needs to be trained. His story is an old one and his tricks aren’t hard to fathom. They turn up the music to keep rage at low volume. All my friends are birds, all they tell is truth. Can’t teach these kids nothin if you’re bothered they’re uncouth. When I trust another man, it’s the hope that’s killing me. When I make alternate plans it’s just so I can breathe.

The shine always fades, no matter it’s lustre. The days are your own to do what you can muster. If you’re wanting for purpose it’s not gonna come find you. Where you’re trynna go forward don’t look twice behind you. She says forget the big picture, let yourself focus in. Thank fuck I can hear her over the din.

The age of making bad decisions on purpose was a fun, terrible time that has long since ended. In our twenties my friend Arden found 氣功. He studied with masters and was beautiful with bright energy. He invited me to join the practice, which both then and now I wholeheartedly agree is mood-altering in the greatest of ways. “Arden,” the person I used to be leveled with him, “now is my time to fuck up. I have to save the serious stuff for later.” A claustrophobic childhood will make one wild with fury to gobble the world. Liberation from a stifling life had come finally in the form of my undergraduate degree, accomplished just before I met Arden. How I relished my first freedom! How I reveled in hedonistic, hell-bent, indulgence. Then, how natural it was to be eventually sated, so that in recent years I am more circumspect, quiet, careful. I practice 氣功 now. Every day, if I can manage it, which is like thrice a week at best. I have been enjoying growing up.

wetsuits barely keep our bodies from illness while our whinging bonds us. they holler native yawps as the boat swoops with the current. thrice this week I’ve spilled salt. thrice I’ve wondered over which shoulder to throw it. to rout the remains of injury from what you called love. the deer remain in place as I, too an animal, pass quietly by; there are new green shoots too tasty to take leave of. nearby: the canyons have got hot, and we snowshoe in the forests. constantly changing: clothes, wind, sun, moods among them all. though they are never separate from we. I shall define love now, by illustration. banishment. practice.

In which on a rushing snowmelt river I learn how to captain a raft. In a wetsuit, rediscovering the pain of a cold that doesn’t release its grip on your feet for hours. The beauty of a fresh river under a blue sky and only your team out there. Sometimes geese are floating by too, and mergansers, all buoyantly tossed in the whims of a flooded path. We gawk at fancy riverside houses that seem precariously close to the torrent we ride. With the river so high, the rapids are weakened, but we whoop and shout anyway. Except when I have to guide the boat, which is a thing I do now.

I groomed friendly horses, including a curly big guy and a miniature cutie, both of whose names I’ve forgotten in these busy weeks. Will report back.

After some on-the-spot coaching while watching the students ride, I dropped into a BMX course on a mountain bike. I rode the whole thing cautiously without stopping or dying or anything. I can’t wait to go again. And faster.

I had to manipulate some documents. It worked. I then studied real hard for my written and practical tests. Y’all, I am so chuffed: I can drive the short bus now.

Relearning teamwork, leaning into leadership, eating bagged lunches. Identifying plants and animals with clever, sassy, sometimes fully walled-up, always fussy teenagers. All of this among incredible adults, most of whom are genuinely interesting (to me). Enduring difficulties among these people, with them—physical pain, fear, conflict, resolution, frustration. Et cetera.

I went to prom and requested Mmmbop, then danced my face off to it. That song is longer than I recollected. The DJ played the Macarena and a whole game of limbo; I participated in one of these. (Real friends will know which.) The kids all looked darling and danced wonderfully. I wore my t-shirt with a tuxedo screen print, which had been gratefully sent from Maine just in time to avoid stressing about dressing for the event. It’s my DC9 Night Club New Years uniform: the whole staff wore them every year. I spent prom incongruously sober.

Unrelated to school except that I was feeling emboldened by accomplishment, I ventured onto my almost-neighbor’s porch with a plan to ask yet again that they shut off the lights that shine into my own windows. I realized immediately that no one was home. In broad daylight then I surprised myself by unhesitatingly mounting the railing there to successfully unscrew the offending bulbs.

On my own I walked up to a deer family accidentally in the dark. They didn’t move except to continue eating the newborn grass in the springtime evening.

---

* I work at a charter school for at-risk teens called Southwest Open School, or SWOS. A massive part of our curriculum is outdoor education.

snow melt so loud as to be mistaken for rivers. at least by me, for whom this place is new. again a new place. anew now with a spring that reminds my skin of childhood summers. a landscape so broad even my startling loud laugh is welcome. there is still snow on the ground and I wear short sleeves every afternoon. it’s a windswept leap from winter to heat here on the western slope. complemented by chilly nights of star-full skies.

the ground is stirring beneath long dead, dry leaves. the flickers are hopping about. magpies are cawing as juncos peep. we’ve all got great reason to shout. the air out here is no longer cold despite the remnant snow. every life is warming up as we prepare to grow.

Tedious, cynical, frayed at both ends

Making new babies and losing old friends,

Is often what grownups are made of.

Dispassionate careering, obsession with news,

Forgotten wonder and unsung blues,

No wonder it’s what kids are afraid of.

When standing still, I often squat. I learned it in Taiwan. To give yourself a little rest when the day goes long. Last night I did just that, under moonlight bright and wide. In my squat I smoked my spliff while the fox crept to my side. I didn’t notice it before it joined my periphery. Barely six whole feet away when it broke my reverie. It was creeping out of caution, curious about me. I had one long moment of close study, then my fox was right to flee.

Just because I can help doesn’t mean I should. Even though you’re effortful that doesn’t make you good. I been trying to draw the reins. I’m dying to slow up. I’ve lost too much to thoughtlessness. I’ve lost so much in love. The heat of spring at altitudes is startling, and welcome. New growth is coming fast and fierce. It cares not for our outcomes.

dating someone rich is the fastest way to lose cash. they’ll all deny it but it’s how they stay stacked. they won’t value your earnings or even your time. when you ask for repayment they’ll accuse you of lying. they’ll be sure they deserve this: what’s theirs and what’s yours. run away, kid, avoid it, before you’ve lost every score.

When after so many hours I arrived to my home so much broader than before she’d been in it, I stood still wearing my backpack for I don’t know how long. I sorted my laundry for a frantic minute, then realized my hunger was strong. I foraged for dinner to find our leftovers, which then I combined for a feast. If this is the greatest love of my life, I haven’t lost in the least.

I didn’t know that the margins would become fascist. It tempts my return to the closet. There’s too many trans kids there’s too many guns, and nobody’s got cash to deposit. They use mental illness to excuse shit behavior. Perhaps I’ll get diagnosed too. We’re triggered because reality sucks and sometimes we don’t like the truth. Your neighbor is alone all day and all night, but you don’t know or care. Online we can pick our political fights to feel superior. They want to watch the donald walk: it’s more than schadenfreude. A whisper of justice is all we been craving. Please tell me that we can move forward.

I startled the little fox again. In one great spring it hopped a fence. It looked back thrice, all pausing, steady. Over the snow shine toward shadows, deliberate, ready. What must it be like to take beauty for granted. Daffodil greens peek from where they weren’t planted. They say life is what happens when you’re making plans. Let’s follow beauty and see how we land.