by Edward J. Kame’enui
The Lahaina fire is now underground
where Pele will gather it without voice
and when the wind is right and
ancient warriors have their backs to her,
she will release it again and follow its path
in her long, alabaster white mu’umu’u.
by Helen Baczkowska
A solitary raven has flown over my tent every morning this week. Most days I have heard the prrr-ruk call before seeing the bird’s silhouette, with its fingered wings and wedge-shaped tail. Below the raven, my green tent nestles on waste ground between a housing estate and red-brown rocks that tumble down the sea. This week I am one of maybe two hundred environmental activists squatting land where England’s newest coal mine for decades is planned.
by Duane Noriyuki
I can picture my father as a young man in northern Colorado walking into a field at day’s end, pushing his shovel into the ground and kneeling to study roots of pinto beans or corn. He would hold a fistful of soil to his nose, checking for who knows what, then crumble it between his fingers. He saw something, smelled something in the land that I never did.
by Jenny Root
A Road Called Wilderness
Another Wildland Urban Interface
Lichen and Winter Light and
Crawfish on the Bike Path
by Cynthia Pappas
I planted myself on this 66-acre farm in the McKenzie River watershed in western Oregon more than 36 years ago when I married my farmer husband. After living for 26 years in a city, the deep quiet was initially disorienting. As I learned the stories of the animals and plants that live here, and their songs and sounds, I began to rewild my soul.
by Mary Sharon Moore
From the expansive east-facing windows in my fourth-floor living room I behold the tender light of dawn. Coupled with the quiet of this early hour, the view is stunning.
by Michael S. Smith
I began to hear a gentle tapping on the tent fly. Then it stopped for a bit, began again, and increased. It was raining, and judging by how the clouds had looked all day and earlier this evening, the rain was likely to continue for some time.
by Brenda Johnson Kame’enui
At the hub of five valleys, Missoula glistens in late June. None of the hills and hummocks that surround the valley have turned brown after a wet spring. I love Montana. I left here at 17 and return each year, at least once. I’m here with my daughter Ani for a float trip on the Selway River of Idaho.
by Alan Contreras
He brought me here
when I was fourteen,
my hair long and dark much as yours is,
and I brought your mother
before she was ten
to see the great marsh and the mountain.