Slowly, without sun, the day sinks toward the close of December. It is minus sixty degrees. Over the sleeping houses a dense fog rises—smoke from banked fires, and the snowy breath of an abyss through which the cold town is perceptibly falling. As if Death were a voice made visible, with the power of
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| type |
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|---|---|---|
| Writing Program | University of Alaska, Anchorage | Alaska |
| Writing Program | University of Alaska at Fairbanks | Alaska |
| Poetry-Friendly Bookstore | Title Wave Books | Alaska |
| Reading Series | Midnight Sun Visiting Writers Series | Alaska |
| Conference | Kachemak Bay Writers' Conference | Alaska |
| Poetry-Friendly Bookstore | Hearthside Books & Toys | Alaska |
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1993
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2016
“I remember the birds ever so many of them when I hunted with the weapons of a child. The water was covered in their numbers, red as the flowers of summer on the mountain. The red phalarope were our prey of choice, there were so many. Today, these birds return yearly, but now only a few return home in spring to
