Spirits Expanding: sculptural painting
Crane Dance Invitation
Jason and Dani's Engagement Balloon
April 19, 2011
April 4, 2011
March 29, 2011
Recent Paintings
Seven Spirirt Symbol Swirl Grid 
First Wash Fall Leaves 
Seven Spirit Symbols Hour GlassMarch 23, 2011
Ark of Books
Once other ribs have been added, this ark will house books--as Noah's ark preserved animals and as the ark of the covenant preserved sacred records.
March 1, 2011
Our One-Night-Victor, Idaho-Sky Mountain Lodge Retreat
The road was closed because of drifts and wind, but they opened it and we got through.
View from the lodge window.
Geezers after snowshoeing.
Presidents Day in the Burg.February 15, 2011
She Wanted a Nature Valentine Poem
Porcupine and Eagle
The lumbering, quill-studded quadruped
waddles the shy, long way round,
ascends the camas desert tree.
Midwinter sap calls it up and out.
Clumsy, it does not think:
If I fall I could stab myself.
But it is true. True as the green sky:
where afternoon blue meets sun sinking
orange.
And the bald eagle sits,
taking it in on his thick branch,
sees his prickly neighbor shinny almost
to the very crown of the tree, backlit
quills casting an aura of abundance, defense.
The eagle’s sharp parts—talon, beak— not protective
but tools to pluck the trout like a God
unannounced, and rip its guts into dinner.
That was earlier. Now it perches here
away from chirping convocation and cavorting
peers. Why does it not fly to them,
apparently content to keep the company
of the sap-sucking, bud-nibbling, arrow-furred
beast? Not even a truce. It’s not like that.
This pause in their respective peregrinations
just finds each free—sharing for an hour—light, air, and tree.
--Scott Samuelson
February 14, 2011
For Shauna
The lumbering, quill-studded quadruped
waddles the shy, long way round,
ascends the camas desert tree.
Midwinter sap calls it up and out.
Clumsy, it does not think:
If I fall I could stab myself.
But it is true. True as the green sky:
where afternoon blue meets sun sinking
orange.
And the bald eagle sits,
taking it in on his thick branch,
sees his prickly neighbor shinny almost
to the very crown of the tree, backlit
quills casting an aura of abundance, defense.
The eagle’s sharp parts—talon, beak— not protective
but tools to pluck the trout like a God
unannounced, and rip its guts into dinner.
That was earlier. Now it perches here
away from chirping convocation and cavorting
peers. Why does it not fly to them,
apparently content to keep the company
of the sap-sucking, bud-nibbling, arrow-furred
beast? Not even a truce. It’s not like that.
This pause in their respective peregrinations
just finds each free—sharing for an hour—light, air, and tree.
--Scott Samuelson
February 14, 2011
For Shauna
Skiing with a Hydra
Or a daughter. Jill is not really a flamboyant person, but when you go skiing with three young boys and one geezer father, it helps when others can spot you easily in line or on the hill.
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