Passive Architect

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Flagstaff

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Thirty miles north of Sedona

lives the summer homes

of most desert dwellers, and the shadow

of Arizona’s highest peak.

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We’d come to ‘Flag’ to climb Mt. Humpheys

the day of rest before

found us lolly-gagging around

easily paved tourist attractions that left

us feeling empty.

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We ate across the tracks before the train

bisected the city again

a hipster town, complete with

a university from the

historic landmarks

old hotels where New Years Eve

parties were spent watching

the pine cone drop

outside the Weatherford Hotel.

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Humphreys began at the low pine spread

easy, slow switch-backs in the Aspen forest

a bright green fern floor before the tall

white legs

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Careful steps climb for two-thirds of the way

watching roots and rock trip your feet

until knee lifts climb you the

last tired third to the top

the sand and lava rock tundra

of a volcano we can make out

at the peak, over the rock scramble

blew one million years ago.

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A live hive by the top

small hungry flies at 12,000 feet

mountains south of us were draped in pines

a soft carpet of Aspen lies in the valley

crooks below the mountain.

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Praying in the Desert

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Long shadows on the hollow rock

walking among monuments of the desert

the agave century plant blooms pads of self-rising yellow buds.

The Ave Maria of the mountains

field song swelling in the Chapel of the Holy Cross

the red risen church with low benches for praying

and viewing the psychedelic flowers of the desert.

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(50/50 Pictures by me or my husband)

We wanted to stay along the Colorado River, so we followed the interstate from Las Vegas, south,

toward Bullhead City and found a river casino town to play and stay for the night.

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From Laughlin to Oatman at the start of Rt 66

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The sun just waking up

The shallow glow of misty morning dew was rising in

leopard print hills just out in the Mohave Desert

we have a breakfast of tacos held over from last night’s dinner.

A Mexican restaurant then,

the beer in the pump room of the Colorado Belle was good

among the creaking pipes and bustling waiters,

most people were watching sports or gambling.

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Old towns keep their western traditions against change

have shoot-outs at high noon each day,

cracked pots in the gallery.

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Hot means 120 degrees, but in June it’s only reaching 105.

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I had a renewed appreciation for water and lush landscape once I returned from the desert back to Ohio.

The shot at the end shows a little break in the desert with the Virgin River as it streams through Zion.

Here in Ohio

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Turn on the faucet and I get the fresh

mouth of spring open at my fingertips.

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Ohio Summer Storm

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At the ledge of the river

a storm swells in the distance

the lamplight flickers on and off with every gust

a tornado touches down 100 miles from here

makes a green sky.

The trees hold their bent positions

when everything releases.