The Feral Poet gets around. The following are a few of his travel observations.

Virgin River, Last Night in Zion

Waiting for the moon
to rise over Watchman,
good micro-brews chilling
in a cheap ice chest,
we stroll in amber dusk
past cook fires, tents, and trailers
to be with the river
one more time.
A short steep path
down to swift cascade,
canopy of cottonwood
and red rock wall,
empty and reverential.

Three hummingbirds feed
above the river,
visible only in the moment
they dart to a new hover,
vanishing then in stillness.
How to tell this–
the grace, the ancient continuous balance?

In last light bats appear
against a slate sky,
and then the moon,
carving jagged peaks.

* * *

Cape Lookout

Wild Oregon
coast in rain;
sea breaking bottle-glass green
under blanket of gray.
How many squalls
have sung in these
old-growth firs?

Waking many times
to blessings of a dry tent
and your nearby
breathing.

* * *

 Joshua Tree

That thing
the Mojave does,
seeping in,
or draining something out,
so pronounced at dusk,
and then you remember
how this strange tree
got its name:
Joshua, awed and overwhelmed,
arms raised in supplication.