There, right there on the living room floor lays the last of an old growth forest.   Hemlock, military- tight straight grain that never again will smell the rain, the hungry draped mosses, the first sun of summer solstice.   Even horizontal with death, this…

When the last crepuscular rays bathe the marsh in sweet golds and pinks, predation peaks. Twilight hours inspire nightmares – ethereal veils barely separating the living from the soon to be dead. Light refracts oddly in this aqueous medium that fosters beguiling shadows. Always remember,…