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Gregor Ames


Evening bells cleanse the ridge top
Across the canyon a chainsaw pauses
Birch trunks still lit fade out
The east ridge already in darkness
My mind enters the pink clouds
The cuckoo falls silent
The night bird begins its song
How cool the light breeze
How icy the coming stars
I close the shed door
Call for the warm dog


A snowflake settles
Upon the porch banister
Becomes a water drop
Dribbles over the lip
And falls to the ground
Thick mist rolls up the valley
I grip the railing
And recall Koha’s bravery:

            I cast the brush aside
            From here on I’ll speak to the moon
            Face to face

My shop is full of tools
Jointer, planer, chop-saw and torches
All of them useless

Gregor Ames holds an MFA from University of Alaska, Anchorage and an MA from Northern Arizona University. Currently, he lives on top of a small mountain in Slovenia with his compassionate wife and three talented dogs.