By Izzy Eckert I see the way the willows sway I hear the call from the colors of Fall Telling me to go that way So, I say “ok” Maybe one day I might lay On these rocks again But until then I’ll think about my blue crocs Walking on these green rocks

By Izzy Eckert I am surrounded by mountains and the clouds are rolling in. It’s night but is still light, and the clouds are starting to sink into the mountains and surround me. The clouds are a symbol of all my stresses and worries, they keep creeping in closer. But what they don’t know is that today, I learned how to shoot bearings. It doesn’t matter if I am closed in by my anxieties and fears because I still know where I am going. I can see through the fog. Plus… there are clear skies ahead.

By Jordan Hales I’ve observed my hydrangeas this season. Watching them bloom and die. Notoriously delicate, withstanding nonetheless; which should be a lesson to all. Delicacy is beautiful, but such fragility contains its own strength. They change with the season. There are few flowers holding onto summer’s warmth. Leaves once green, now red. Petals once soft, now shriveled. In death, there’s beauty. Their death isn’t sad; they’ll return next season. Then, I can watch them again. Sprout, bloom, stand proudly. Morning dew collects; dries with the sun. Bees pollinate. Wind blows. Water hydrates. For a while, they’ll stand proudly. Then, they will die.

By Joe The geese are honkin’, you gotta be kiddin’ me. The leaves are fallin’, get outta here. The frost is frostin’, shoot me. The chilled air is chillin’, my ass off. The mountains are snowin’, sit on this. The darkness is dark, Mother of God! An autumn reverie, not so much.

By Rosanne Pagano I’ve done this a long time, this business of teaching writing. I teach people who think they don’t really like writing, who think writing is kind of a time waster, who’d rather be doing anything than sitting in my class, thinking about writing, or trying to think about writing.   Or trying to pretend they’re thinking about writing.   As I say, I’ve done this a while.   And honestly? It’s work I still love.   Teaching writing is teaching thinking. Quick: Name me three things more important to fixing a flailing world than teaching, thinking, writing. I sure can’t think of any. Can you? 

By Dylan Manderlink the steam from my cracked, thrift-store find mug clouds the mountains as I wonder who buys these #1 Dad mugs earnestly. I stay cocooned in my sleeping bag with tent doors wide open welcoming the unwelcoming cold of the morning. I like these mornings on my own and I know I’ll miss this nomadic living. I look down at my coffee, the swirls of brown and white, the steam warms my face. No one knows this is what my mornings look like. They’re just mine. I share them with the mountains and the coffee. The constants in the chaos. I’ll miss these mornings.

By Deb Codding “Did your life turn out the way you thought it would, Grandma?” the young man asked.  The old woman looked into her Grandson’s eyes and whispered, “Life rarely turns out the way you think it will sweetie–it turns out the way it should.  Don’t wait for your life to be the way you imagine it should be.  Live your life the way that makes you happy at the time.  Waiting is for fools.  Living is for the rest of us.”  As her Grandson kissed her cheek, she closed her eyes and went over the rainbow.

By Jen Erickson I’m aware we may not see eye-to-eye. I understand my passion, or lack thereof, can be intense and infuriating. I am unlearning old ways of thinking and habits while acquiring new ways of understanding the world and people. We need not be good friends, but I trust if we are civil, operate through a lens of love and justice, we can sit at the same table. The table is long and there are empty seats beside my own. You may sit next to me. I have a lot to say, but please go first. I’m listening. 

By Laura Ditto If I were a bear, I’d ravage through your camp, I’d eat all the delicious food and up the hills I’d scamp. Mountains would be small if I were a bear. I’d wander through the tundra— adventure without care. I would nestle in the woods and eat the mighty fish. If I were a bear, the world would be my dish. Rain would be no problem. All weather would be fair. My thick coat would keep me warm if I were a bear.

By Alex Lee How the ptarmigan came to live on this particular nunatak, I couldn’t quite fathom. Forty miles of ice to the south would have made for an arduous flight. To the east, four thousand feet of glacier pouring into Prince William Sound was surely no more reasonable. She could have come from west, but the easiest path no doubt was our own, from the south along the well-maintained Harding Icefield Trail, then out into the expanse. Somehow, we each found this tiny enclave of tundra surrounded by millions of tons of ancient snow—a surprise to us both.