By Brian Michael Barbeito

At one time or another wind crashes through the bushes but that is not all. The winter sun hits the world like a fire and down below even the regular paths, along the valley floor, four coyotes chase two deer faster and faster and the leaves throw themselves up not having a clue what has happened and a commotion can be heard. Nothing is caught yet, - but what a race, what a piece of trouble for everyone, and how fast they all go through there. At one time or another. And at one time or another ice breaks and the walkers foot falls through the pond, - he is then with frustration, mud, and a bruised knee to go along with the bruised ego. He has to get out of the quick-sand like vacuum the waiting mud below has created and still try to keep his shoe on his foot. He has to walk home, drenched, kind of throttled or sunken and the like. At one time or another the robust July day houses impossibly blue and red berries, a praying mantis, a snake that comes across the way of the yonder path and is old and wise and cannot be caught or photographed, - no not that one, - and though to tell the truth he is just a generic garden variety garter snake, - there is nothing really prosaic about him upon closer look. He is beauty, he is life, and he is a representation and part of the real kundalini energy both. At one time or other these things and thousands more happen. At one time or another, anyhow and anyways and anytime. At one time or another the creek flows and the pond is still and black and silent and who knows what it houses. The fences run along and the clouds skate through the sky then slow and bob a bit like balloons leaving and full of helium. They leave just the blue sky and then this sky turns ominous and dark, grey and after that the world becomes outright lurid and I am callow compared to its age and sagacity but I am game, I am all in, I am alive, and I am down. At one time or another,- I get struck by ground lightning minutes before the real storm, the lightning coming out from the earth and through the leg and out the back of the right leg leaving its charge, scarring and scaring with its burn mark. I thought a group of people had thrown a fast and large rock as a joke. But no joke it was, at one time or another.


Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian writer, poet and photographer. Recent work appears at Fiction International from San Diego State University, CV2 The Canadian Journal of Poetry and Critical Writing, and at Catch and Release-The Columbia Journal of Arts and Literature. Brian is the author of Chalk Lines (Fowl Pox Press, 2013, cover art by Virgil Kay). He is currently at work on the written and visual nature narrative titled Pastoral Mosaics, Journeys through Landscapes Rural.