Why is it that when the cat and I fight over prime bed space the cat normally wins? Questions to ask when considering evolutionary success.

An artist walking unhurriedly, her canvases under her arm. It’s raining. I admire such trust in one’s continued creativity.

When a rosebud dies, it becomes, what we call a flower. That we cannot perceive the bud’s grief in no way excuses us our joy in its corpse.

New bookshelf, empty, gives me permission to buy more books of poetry. Some moments of anthropomorphism are extremely useful.

Vogon Poetry Slam
Thursday September 22, 6:30 pm-8:30 pm
Alice MacKay Room, Lower Level, Central Library, 350 W. Georgia St, Vancouver, BC

You know who the Vogons are don’t you? If not please amend your education.

Between the trees is a universe of dying female spiders. They are ardently mating, eating, laying eggs; fiercely living their last moments.

Legs so long and sensitive they are seismic sensors. Delicate trembling: fly lands on concrete. But me, like gravity, too big to matter.

Fight in tree witnessed: spider swinging, web in tatters. Wasp on wing quick-bite spider feet. Spider dropped to ground, ran. Wasp won.

Seen at the park – a raccoon right front paw print on the path. Not surprised, but nevertheless delighted. Proof of a shared-reality.

Dozing in a patch of hot sun, the first yellow leaf falls.