The Reverberate Hills; or The Apotheosis of the Narwhal

waiting for the bus while the streets are still empty and the breezes fresh

solitary dove persistently mourning day even before dawn

half a dead pigeon lying on the fountain's edge gulls circle slowly

San Francisco Opera’s production of Puccini's La Fanciulla del West this month was my first time seeing it on stage after decades of ope...

the street is empty night-absorbed, night-enchanted just a block away

turtle in the sun stretching out his neck and limbs as far as he can

fog rolled in and stayed we went about our business you had gone away

The electric opening night of San Francisco Opera’s production of Die Walkure seems to be turning before our eyes into one of those legend...

starting anything is opening the door to morning's heavy mists

branches wave, waves wave, grass bends low and hills erode; ah, it's all just wind