The Ghosts of Giants


church ov solitude

As I ascended the old logging road, deep in the Kilchis river canyon, my eyes felt pulled to a ridge jutting away from the main path some three hundred feet above the river. The blinding spring sunshine fled through the trees, soaking into the earth, as a faint steam rose from the well-saturated flanks of the canyon. Small birds cried tiny songs from the thicket of salmonberry, sword ferns, and Oregon grape; I returned their calls, hoping for an exchange. Even after responding, I still could not see them hiding in their brushy quarters, so I carried on.

I wound my way between branches and sticks as I followed the ridge out along the edge- wondering where I was going. Thorns snagged my clothing and scraped at my bare arms, but a path was worn into the carpet of moss here. I followed it.

As I stepped into a clearing…

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About Jonathan Caswell

Mr. Caswell has been composing poetry at least since High School. He has been on WORD PRESS for ten years and contributes to two other blogs beside this one. This blog has a Christian emphasis but all bloggers are welcome. Mr. Caswell chooses to---with permission--re[post material of interest

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