Things are what they are until they are not.

Sometimes things just are what they are; bridges, telephone poles, gas stations, and a thousand other things filling needs instead of dreams and purpose instead of folly. And if they are more than merely useful, even awe-inspiring, like sunsets, and…

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Wilderness: A Poem

The grizzly throws its head into the wind because it smells like food and death, and God.

The timber wolf howls deep into the darkness with the call of a thousand forefathers.

And the falcon banks its wings, casting peregrine…

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The Ground Beneath Our Feet: Sole to Soul

Our first meaningful memories are captured by the soles of our feet. Maybe that why babies don’t really remember being babies. They just lay around eating, pooping, and throwing up. And when they’re not hanging out like little awkward potato…

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Rabbits and Humanity Rise Like The Phoenix 

DECEMBER 8, 2017 BY IMACRE8TIVESOUL 

I wrote this fictionalized tale of rescue after watching the inspiring video account yesterday of a man pulling off the highway to save a rabbit, in the middle of southern California’s hellish wildfires. If you have

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Rabbits and Humanity Rise Like The Phoenix

I wrote this fictionalized tale of rescue after watching the inspiring video account yesterday of a man pulling off the highway to save a rabbit, in the middle of southern California’s hellish wildfires. If you have not already seen it

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Irish Stones and a Friend of My Father’s

Irish stones stretch for hundreds of miles from Crookhaven to Ballycastle, and from Claddaghduf to Dublin. Jagged blue limestone cuts across the impossibly green landscape of Ireland like veins. The dry-stacked walls, fragile as they are, have parceled out the…

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And still…all we need is love.

I sat behind Paul Gardner in my eighth grade Language Arts class at Longfellow Middle School. Paul was bigger than the rest of us, lanky and tall as a beech tree. But what made him larger than life, was his…

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Orange Sun from Canadian Fires

I guided my fourteen foot Pisgah kayak across the large back bay of Brush Creek, winding my way around the narrow, Blue Heron-laden outlet towards the Cumberland River. I’m used to the late evening light there, as I frequent that…

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Song Stories: Next Year People

What defined those red dirt farmers at the moment when their crops blew away in the wind and the insidious dust settled in their cupboards, beneath their bed sheets and in the crevices between their teeth and gums?  What did…

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