We live between two fault lines, not far (geologically speaking) from the traveling hot spot that created Yellowstone National Park. i love that my name is buried within the black glass rock ‘obsidian’. i feel deeply connected to the earth’s innermost secrets, although not directly or consciously privy to their insights.  So writing, in some ways, helps that magma rise through me, where eventually the rocks expose themselves in poems or stories. Here’s the one (slightly revised, cuz one is never satisfied) that Ravi Shankar was referring to in my post a few weeks ago.


He wakes me with that


bull elk fall serenade

and i scramble through my tent flap

into a Yellowstone meadow so frosted

in the vanilla milkshake moonlight

it could be snow.

Glimpsing movement, he keenly

gazes my way.

Another bugle erupts

steaming over obsidian stream .

Musk stinks like moldering swamp.

His thick neck carries

a wild architecture over grassy

stars, while slow

echoes fade.

Behind the mousy river rustling by

he now holds an easeful silence,

and like a famished trout, i gulp

the riddle he casts

into this molten glow.


About sidney woods

After a couple of practice novels, I'm now engrossed in an effort to create my first YA story, set in the tumultuous year of 1980. The best of YA stories fit my passion for reading that's worth something, so I think about those stories 'out loud' here.

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