Yosemite--a journal in sentences

Houses peering over the hill, their hidden faces, eager like children.

That white in the distance above the peak--is that the clouds or snow?

The graveyard next to the vineyard--clean rows of tombs facing neat rows of trees.

A chorus of screams--there's a bear.

Rust-grey barks, black twisted trunks--signs of last summer's fire.

A still pool of water littered with brown leaves--what's that--a fish.

The night sky is a dew covered celestial web.

They saw shooting stars; I only spotted an aeroplane.

Campfire with strangers, full of awkward silences and firesmoke.

Bacon juices make the fire sizzle, sputter and fizz.

After the long climb, the cool creek is tempting, even with the undercurrent.

Late afternoon sun scorched patches of black soil gold.

Early morning--an owl hoots so sad in the dark.

At the peak, trees look so small, I feel like I can eat them.

The stream is a swirl of colors--rust, jade, coal and sparks of sunlight.

I found names of people I know carved out on trees, rocks and moss.

Tents are so thin, our dreams thread together in occasional sleeptalks overheard.

Morning, my jacket still smells of campfire smoke.