Coleman Davis

Sansen Tanka Atatakai

In the woods below the fallen scree, sight is only a hardcandy green stainedglass light that bleeds into my dirty bluejeans and a sweatsoaked  bramblethorn-torn long sleeved teeshirt.

In the warmth of late spring in middle Kentucky breath is a sacred privilege. 

Spring slides drip with dram
into a hot orange moonlight
my thoughts catch thermals
like red tail hawks or fireflies
igniting Pinnacle's heights

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About the Author

Coleman Davis is the resident forest elf and chief cook and bottle washer at Owsley Fork Writers Sanctuary in Berea, Kentucky.

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