49 Writers

RUSTED LUMPS OF LUCK By Wendy Brooker, Wasilla   Rusted lumps of luck dwell deep in horseshoe iron Welcome chance and charm

BUDS AND THE GOLDEN SHOVEL after Nora Marks Dauenhauer By Tamara Holman, Soldotna   Warm April hike, all forest beings’ breath bated. First sign of spring’s annual creation anticipated. The earth is soft, snow melts. Cottonwoods’ puckering trunks, topped with speckled branches. Tiny buds poised. Soon to be exploding with life! Air filled with their

THE TRUTH ABOUT A WAVE By Scott Banks, Anchorage   There’s always another behind it, To chase its past up the beach In memory of rain.   Author’s Note: This poem was previously published in Cirque. 3(1) 42

FOX CREEK CABIN By Saundra Middleton, Anchorage   Blistered heels in boots twelve miles old. Packs, five meals shy of the four-day load, dropped On the porch of the hiker’s haven. Sox dried, bellies fed, laughter squeals Over the cascading creek, Until yawns welcome early bedtime hugs. A porcupine prickle whittles away The posts beneath

FISH CAMP By Nancy Deschu, Anchorage   Salmon are running, pink and red, occasional king, returning to natal waters to spawn and die, the young swept to sea, fatten, then home again – the circle, stream to sea, sea to stream. Pull the net, pick the fish, drop the net, pull the next, over and

PUSH PULL By Ruth Wood, Talkeetna   Emitting vivid tones of summer and warmth Last year’s photo catches my eye Heart and mind leap forward in anticipation Until glancing out my window Today’s world of firm sun-glistened snow Pulls me back I gaze at birch and spruce Standing leafless and beetle-stress bare Their natures redefined

MARCH By Pamela Cravez, Anchorage   I am sitting at my window watching the snow, lint Adrift on the breeze, steady Yet invisible to my camera when I try to capture these bits of mist That are accumulating, an inch, maybe two, The persistence and deception of March, treading toward spring. For a year I’ve

HALF LIGHT MIS-TAKEN By Monica Devine, Eagle River   Today is not a day I dreamed it will be summer, always   not a day I longed for tall grasses to froth like winded sea waves not a day I wished to hike hills the color of grasscloth.   How could I?   Light clears

RIVER MEADOW By Margo Waring Juneau The quiet brown river punctuated by exclamation points of fallen trees. Standing in the forest shade surrounded by alder and spruce. Early spring quiet without insect hum. Listening to the call of Steller’s jay. Spot lit by sun a river meadow, edged by chartreuse of early blueberry; bright with

OVERLOOKED By Jonas Lamb, Juneau What it sees is not insignificant though at such scale and magnification we likely seem so much less than small. These bodies, their dark openings where we let in the light. Despite all our ruminations, our labors— blunt and bizarre we do not sparkle but blend in against the backdrop