High Desert Snow

Alaska Highway View
View from Alaska Highway May 2012

What is this white? Your chesnut mare is asking.

You pat her flank once reassuringly,
smooth her saddle blanket, saddle her and mount her, take her through the gate.

Silence takes the pipe corrals that

whistled last September in the wind.

Your thighs, your knees, they guide her.
The two of you, like old familiar lovers
discern the trail from rocky flats by feel.

You ride past frosty fence posts
and live oaks, prickly branches
bent beneath the weight.

Still air. No hawk in sight.
Not a cry from a magpie.
Not one track
save yours
to mar this new, new white.

C 2015 Mary A. Schultz, All rights reserved

Seven Views of the San Joaquin River

Seven Views of the River
Fuerte River, El Fuerte, Sinaloa, Mexico

Fisherman presses finger to lips. Casts
a silent ripple.

Coffee on the galley stove.
Head tilted, blue heron lifts wing
unsettled by hiss.

Breaths of a wind chime,
mother of pearl.
Squirrel chatter halts.

Crawdad claws
cling to mesh
trapped alive.

Red shells,
curled tails,
the boiling brine.

Two racoons
bang the screen.
A shoo-away broom.

Pale moon.
Little frog jumps.
Settles on foredeck.

C 2015 Mary A. Schultz, All rights reserved

Frog Song

Here are a poem and photo from the archives. This is my way of saying thank you to all who have downloaded my ebooks. Please enjoy The Last Skywatchers and Sea Cliff 104, and please review. If you need help submitting a review on Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Kobo, or Amazon, contact me via my contact form and be in touch.

Mount Iliamna
Mount Iliamna, Alaska


Before the summer frog song sounded once,
before the dry adobe settled on the wind,
the moon spread silver streaks
across a black, black sea.

The water swelled, ebbed and waned;
the tides claimed one frail shell
and rocked it, worked it
to the ocean floor.

Imbedded, it lay captured
till the mountains shook and burst
from underground; pounding water
churned the shell to grains
too small, too many to be named.

The sea floor, naked, baked and
cracked dry clay —
wind, wind, carried it away.

Hush now. Hear what summer song frogs say.
I loved you before these things occurred.

C 2015 Mary A. Schultz, all rights reserved