Originally published by Cirque Journal

I’m staring at a bad painting.

I attempted this particular canvas.

Painting takes focus. Colors become

with patience, time, many strokes.

And when achieved, precision

of placement is the next challenge.

Good thing I’m not painting today,

just shaping sloppy words.

The magpies are taunting the dogs again.

Black feathers stark in the scape

of snow, sitting in the branches staring

down at my dogs howling up at them.

I sit book in hand, looking

for inspiration but all I can think is

it’s cold, January in Montana.

I go out to retrieve some firewood

and tell the hounds to forget about it.

Creating is all the same.

I sit cross-legged. The fire won’t start.

I flick the lighter’s wheel,

Sparks, flame jump at paper,

But smoke upon cedar.

Curls of white ribbon depart

The wood burning stove’s mouth,

Wisps extending to dissolve.

Trail, my coonhound, noses me.

He doesn’t understand

What I am doing. What am I doing?

He’s seen me do this before,

but he still doesn’t get why.

My throat is scratched out here.

There’s a lot of sky and

the snow steals the sounds.

I’ve got a lot to say

but not much to say it to.

Just my pups and

those magpies.