A week after I returned from my oldest sister’s funeral, my eye fastened in the library upon the title of a book–Sisters by Daisy Johnson. It had been a long time since

I leapt across the sinkhole along Leona Canyon, the place where I hike past Bay Laurel Trees and buckeyes, a stream now subdividing the pathway into gravel and soggy leaves,

1. RFK and JFK, a bridge and an airport, but in another part of NYC, I leave my sister in the ground, it wasn’t a heart attack, just some ploy

Using  two opposable thumbs my future unfolds never a dull moment– at the gym between sets, at the cashier waiting on line, watching the evening news, talking to you from

I share the road with the darting lizard, greet other hikers where before there was only a quickening to save myself from saying hello. I hear a horse neigh, reminded of a