I write at the messy interface of nature and the human experience.

Facing Down the Apocalpse VIII: If a Tree Falls

Facing Down the Apocalpse VIII: If a Tree Falls

Last evening I dropped a tree over the edge of the world as I know it. The Douglas-fir died in exactly the spot I directed, sent there with a chainsaw and hand-winch. I am not an expert feller of trees, although decades ago I did make my living dropping lodgepole pine around what then were million-dollar homes.

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Facing Down the Apocalypse VII: Solitude

Facing Down the Apocalypse VII: Solitude

On the front porch of the Johnny Gunter place, I ride the incoming swell of nightfall. The last logging rigs rumbled out of the valley two hours ago. A single robin chirrups from the meadow growing April green before me. Wind from the west draws an iron overcast across the evening sky.

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Facing Down the Apocalypse VI: Rough-skinned Newts

Facing Down the Apocalypse VI: Rough-skinned Newts

There sure is a lot of sex at the end of the world as I thought I knew it. After a socially distant run on the chip trail, I finish with a sweaty stroll through the neighborhood park, pausing on a footbridge across the small creek. The air has become a breathing thing, ribs of willow and cottonwood exhaling …

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New Release

These essays and poems from Tom A. Titus were born as morning journal entries, riverside scribblings, and phone notes from ridgetops when words howled for freedom. They celebrate the emerald ripple of the Pacific Northwest and embrace departed family, raspberry sunrises, imminent storms, and the bloodshot stare of a sharp-shinned hawk. In the way that a palindrome reads identically, start to finish to start, and contains an internal reflection nudging against infinity, these writings reflect on our relationship with events and beings, beautiful and timeless.

To order a signed copy by mail, send a check for $14.00 made out to Tom A. Titus to: Tom A. Titus, 3550 Mill St., Eugene, OR, 97405

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New Release

These essays and poems from Tom A. Titus were born as morning journal entries, riverside scribblings, and phone notes from ridgetops when words howled for freedom. They celebrate the emerald ripple of the Pacific Northwest and embrace departed family, raspberry sunrises, imminent storms, and the bloodshot stare of a sharp-shinned hawk. In the way that a palindrome reads identically, start to finish to start, and contains an internal reflection nudging against infinity, these writings reflect on our relationship with events and beings, beautiful and timeless.

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