Beyond her emerald wood,
To places she had never been
And never dreamed she would.
She walked beneath the blood red rocks,
Their withered, stunted trees,
And through a land cut to the bone
By ruthless, ancient seas.
She rested where the ancient onesHad built with strength and stone
The palaces that linger still
Though they are now long gone
She wept for forests lost to flames,The blackened, ghostly chill
Of spirits older than her own
Who call their children still.
She strayed beside the river bedThat carved an ancient land
And lingered near the rippled rock
That bears the river’s brand.
The soaring canyon swept the skyAnd sang a song of years,
Of longing and remembrance,
Of life and death and tears.

The Dryad wandered long afarAmid these ancient dreams,
But deep within her secret heart
She missed her woodland streams.
The broken trees, the withered limbs
That spring from barren rock
Are testament to pine and oak
Sprung from a stubborn stock,

But rivers should run clear and brightBeneath the Douglas Fir
And trees should dance in cloud draped skies
Where mountain breezes stir.
The Dryad found great beauty in
The distant desert lands,
But joyfully she has returned
To her own sylvan strands.

















And the answer to that age old question....
Yes, They Do!


Oh... I missed the Coyote... twice. What was I thinking putting the camera down for two minutes?







Notice the white dot in the middle of the picture... that's a helicopter... at full zoom!






