In the back yard of my neighbor’s house,
a face forms from corkscrew willow:
hair line and brows of twigs, the branch end’s
dark eyes partially hidden by ferns.

My sister’s features brighten in the sun’s

Silver Falls
State Park, Oregon

We hear it first, the roar of it,
then a glimpse through stands

of cedar fronds and maple limbs
until we see in a clearing the surge
of water pounding down.

The trail winds behind the charge,
droplets of power plunge

A child of eight remembers the first visit,
the narrow rutted road, dust swirling behind
the gray sedan. Around a bend,
wild roses and balsamroot
climb a wrought-iron gate.

By Kay Mullen Water quickens under the bridge, near the pond where the gray-green algae begins to fade. Beyond the stone arch, the cabbage with their yellow hoods and flowered horns announce spring, candles flaring among the bracken and beige scraps of knotweed. Soon, chameleon-like, they will shift colors to the cocklebur and tarweed’s deep […]

By Kay Mullen The snow goose glides back waters of the pond. Pigeon-gray patches of sky mirror her fading wings. Soon she will be white as reflections of the snow-covered mountain rippling beside her among tangles of brush, vast ranges of cedar and birch. At night, the snow goose nests near the salmonberry, morning light […]