Since I’ve started writing a little more poetry to incorporate into my artwork I’ve gotten those literary creative cogs turning at random moments (like they had in years past).  This inspiration came loudly out of the darkness above some time after the moon set.


At night
we never know
how close
the chinooks come,
whether they are using
heat seeking night vision,
watching us curled
alone in our beds,
thinking we are sleeping,
not holding our breaths
until they pass.

We sense their approach,
intially a low, indeterminate rumble
like a distant earthquake,
at first not knowing
whether our enemy is
real, or us.

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