"The Grave-Marker River"

The St. Croix River—so named by the white men who charted their maps and named what had already been named—was far older than any settler could have imagined. Long before logging saws pierced the silence, before canoe paddles dipped into its dark, reflective waters, before even the first moccasin brushed its mossy banks, the river had already lived a thousand lifetimes. The Ojibwe called it Jiibayaatigo-ziibi--The Grave Marker River. To them, it wasn’t just water carving through land; it was spirit, memory, and witness.

By the time Doug, Wayne, and John arrived with their sleeping bags, hot dogs, and the careless joy of being fourteen, the moon was already rising. It was full and round, casting silver light upon the black, mirror-like water. They had hiked in half a mile from the trailhead, finding a soft bend where the trees leaned in as though to whisper secrets to the river.

The boys gathered wood and lit a fire. Sparks drifted into the sky like tiny spirits returning home. They laughed—loudly—over half-burned marshmallows, teased each other about who might snore the loudest, and traded stories about friends, families, teachers, and summer plans. None of them noticed how the trees had grown quieter around them, how the wind had settled into something heavier, almost watchful.

The fire crackled as sleep took them one by one. The moon climbed higher.

Doug was the first to stir. Not from noise—but from a knowing. He blinked at the sky, then at the fire still alive with embers. Something was… off.

A whisper in the trees.

Wayne awoke next, then John. All three sat up, their laughter long gone. They huddled close, instinctively drawing together, their eyes scanning the woods around them.

Then they began to see them.

At first, the figures were shadows at the edge of the trees. But as the boys stared—really looked, with something deeper than just their eyes—the shadows took form. There were women in deerskin dresses, braided hair catching moonlight like strands of silver. Children, barefoot, running silently between the trunks. Warriors with stern, unreadable faces. White men in long coats and wide-brimmed hats. Lumbermen with axes on their shoulders. A trapper crouched beside the river, tending to something unseen.

The boys said nothing, but their eyes were wide. They didn’t need to speak. The fire held them like an island, flickering, alive.

The ghosts moved not like intruders, but like memories caught in a loop. Their lips moved without sound, yet the boys heard. Not with ears—but deep inside, like feelings given shape.

The Ojibwe warriors told of battles fought not for conquest, but for survival. Of dances and births and sacred trees. The settlers told of long winters, lost children, and fleeting joys. The lumbermen, drunk on industry, spoke of clearcut hillsides, rivers choked with sawdust, and regrets that came too late.

All night, the forest shared its stories. The river glimmered with reflected faces, some stern, some sorrowful, some content.

Doug, Wayne, and John listened—silent, wide-eyed, reverent. None of them knew why they were seeing this, only that it was real. And that it was meant for them.

As dawn broke, the ghosts faded like mist, one by one dissolving into trees, into river, into air.

When the sun rose above the pines, the woods looked the same as they had the evening before. Birds chirped. The river flowed. The campfire, now just ashes, let out a soft curl of smoke.

But the boys were changed.

They packed in silence. Not out of fear—but respect. They didn't speak of what they saw, not then. Not for years. But they would all remember. They would carry it.

Because some people are blind to the old world. Not by fault—but by forgetting.

But some... some still see.
​
And Jiibayaatigo-ziibi, the Grave Marker River, remembers them all.

~Wylddane

Nutty stretched and yawned, feeling the warmth of their cozy home in the mighty oak tree. He blinked his eyes open, expecting to see golden morning light streaming through the window. Today was going to be a fine spring day—perfect for working on their garden. He could already picture himself and Whiskers digging in the soft earth, planting rows of delicious treats for the coming season.

But when he glanced out the window, his heart sank. Snow! Fat, fluffy snowflakes drifted down, covering the ground in a fresh, white blanket.

"Oh, whiskers and tails!" Nutty groaned, flopping dramatically onto his chair. "I was all ready to work on the garden today! Why does spring always play tricks on us?"

Whiskers, who had just tumbled out of bed, padded over and peered outside. "Well, it is beautiful," he said with a smile. "Maybe it’s not the day we expected, but let’s at least go take a look around."

Still grumbling, Nutty tugged on his scarf and followed Whiskers out the door. The cold air nipped at their noses, and their paws crunched through the fresh snow as they stepped outside. Everything was covered in a glistening layer of white—so much for digging in the dirt today!

Just as Nutty was about to lament their ruined plans again, something soft and cold smacked Whiskers right on the head.

PLOP!

He gasped in surprise, shaking off the snow. "What in the—"

A mischievous chuckle echoed from behind a tree. Mr. Otter peeked out, a playful glint in his eye. "Oops! My aim must be off!"

Before Whiskers could respond, another snowball came flying through the air, landing right at Nutty’s feet. A chorus of giggles rang out from behind the bushes. The Rabbits!

Nutty narrowed his eyes, then grinned. "Oh, it’s on!"

He scooped up a handful of snow, quickly forming a snowball, and hurled it toward Mr. Otter, who barely dodged in time. Within moments, snowballs were flying in all directions as the whole neighborhood joined in. The Otters, the Rabbits, the Chipmunks, and the Snow Geese—everyone scampered, dodged, and flung snow, filling the air with laughter and happy shrieks.

Nutty forgot all about his garden as he and Whiskers dove behind a log, breathless from running and throwing. "I think we’ve been ambushed!" Whiskers giggled, shaking the snow from his fur. "Time to rally!"

The battle raged on until, at last, everyone collapsed in the snow, panting and laughing. As Nutty caught his breath, something small and purple caught his eye. He scrambled up and brushed the snow aside, revealing a delicate crocus pushing its way through the snow.

"Whiskers, look!" he called. "A sign that spring really is coming!"

Whiskers knelt beside him, his eyes shining. "It’s beautiful. And you know what? Today turned out to be just as wonderful as we hoped—even without the garden."

That evening, Nutty and Whiskers curled up in their comfy chairs, acorn tea warming their paws, as a fire crackled in their little acorn-shaped wood stove. The scent of burning oak filled their home, wrapping them in a snug cocoon.

Nutty sighed, a happy smile on his face. "You were right, Whiskers. We lived in the moment today. And even though it wasn’t what we planned, it was still the best day ever."

Whiskers clinked his teacup against his. "To unexpected joys and snowball fights."

Outside, the crocus stood tall amidst the snow, a promise that spring was on its way.

~Wylddane

(Text and Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

The full moon hung luminous in the velvet sky, casting its silver glow over the still waters of the lake. Reflected upon the surface, it shimmered like a dream, rippling with the quiet breath of the night. The forest stood in reverent silence, tall pines and ancient oaks framing the scene, their branches whispering in the faintest breeze.

A young man stood at the water’s edge, his gaze lifted toward the moon. The world stretched before him, infinite and unknowable. He was young—so much life yet unlived, so many paths yet untrodden. And yet, on this night, he felt the pull of something beyond himself, something vast and eternal. The moonlight bathed his face in pale radiance, and he hummed softly, almost without thought, the words of an old, haunting melody:

“Silvery moon in the velvet sky Your light shines far in the heavens Over the world, wandering Gazing in human dwellings...”

The song wove through his thoughts, the melody carrying his unspoken questions into the night. Would he find love? Would he know true fulfillment? Would the road ahead lead him to the completeness he yearned for? He did not know. But he knew, as he stood beneath the vast night sky, that he was not alone in such wonderings. Countless others had stood where he stood, searching the heavens for answers, offering their wishes to the moon.

He took a slow breath, feeling the night air cool against his skin, and in that moment, something within him shifted. The silver light was not just around him—it was within him. He could feel it, pulsing like a quiet fire, illuminating the spaces in his soul that had long been waiting for such a night as this. It was more than a wish—it was an awakening, a reminder that he was a part of this great, luminous world, woven into the fabric of something vast and beautiful.

The breeze stirred, carrying with it the scent of pine and earth, and in that whisper of air, he felt the presence of something unseen—an energy, a quiet magic, the universe breathing alongside him. The moon, timeless and knowing, seemed to listen, seemed to understand. He closed his eyes and let its radiance settle within him, filling him with the quiet certainty that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

And as he stood there, drawing the vibrancy of the glowing moon into his soul, he understood that the magic he longed for had been with him all along. It was in the night, in the shimmering water, in the hush of the trees. It was in the very act of being alive, of feeling deeply, of standing beneath the stars with his heart open to possibility.

When he finally turned from the lake, he carried the moonlight with him, not as a wish unanswered, but as a promise—a quiet knowing that whatever came next, the magic of this night would remain within him, guiding him forward into the unknown.
​
~Wylddane

(Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

A dear friend has recently discovered the joy of making and baking bread. He has shared stories and photos of his accomplishments—rolls of various kinds, whole wheat loaves, baguettes, sourdough, rustic breads. His enthusiasm and achievements bring back memories of my mother, who was an excellent bread maker and baker. She learned from her mother, using a wood stove fueled with firewood. To this day, I marvel at how they maintained the right temperatures.

They crafted these breads without recipes or measuring cups, relying instead on sight, touch, and taste. It was a labor of love, a necessity, and in its own way, a form of art. Each loaf, roll, and twist was a masterpiece of taste and perfection.

Baking was also therapy. In the quiet of the kitchen, sometimes in the stillness of the early morning hours, she would measure and mix, knead and shape, bake and savor the aromas filling the house. The act of baking brought her peace and clarity, a simplification of life down to its basics, making problems seem clearer and more manageable.

As a child, I could always tell when my mother had a restless night. When I emerged from my room in the morning and wandered into the kitchen, I would be greeted by the sight and smell of freshly baked bread. And on those mornings, she would do something special for me—take scraps of dough, fry them in lard or butter, and serve them hot with her homemade jams. Strawberry, raspberry, chokecherry jelly, peach preserves—whatever was available.

To this day, I savor the memories of those mornings, the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread, and the love infused in every bite.

Mom, I miss you to this day. These memories of you are alive in my thoughts and heart. There is so much I have to tell you... need to tell you. Yet somehow, I suspect you may already know?

And is there not a good metaphysical lesson in baking bread? We are both the breadmaker and the bread itself. We add, we savor, we create. And we are also ourselves added to, kneaded, shaped by life... yet are we ever really finished? Life, like dough, is ever-evolving. It is stretched, folded, and left to rise in the warmth of experience. Sometimes, we are placed into the heat of trials, yet from that fire, we emerge changed—crisp on the outside, soft and nourishing within. Each moment, each challenge, each joy adds another layer to who we are, just as each ingredient shapes the final loaf. And like bread shared at the table, our lives are meant to be given, savored, and appreciated, nourishing those around us with the love and wisdom we cultivate along the way.

~Wylddane

(Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

The ice that had once covered the lakes, ponds, and rivers of the northwoods was melting, and with it came a great celebration. Ducks quacked with delight as they splashed in the open water, swans glided elegantly across the surface, and geese honked merrily, stretching their wings in the warming sun. The waterfowl were overjoyed to reclaim their watery playground, and their laughter and calls filled the crisp spring air.

Among those watching the merriment from the shore were two very excited squirrels—Nutty and Whiskers. They had been invited to join the fun, but there was one small problem: squirrels were not natural swimmers. They had tried a few experimental paddles before, but their fluffy tails and tiny paws weren’t quite made for the water. Still, they weren’t about to miss out on the fun!

Nutty’s eyes sparkled with an idea. “We’ll make a boat!” he declared, twitching his tail with excitement. “A boat?” Whiskers tilted his head, intrigued. “But out of what?”

Scanning the shoreline, they noticed a large, sturdy block of lake ice still floating near the edge. It was just the right size for two adventurous squirrels. With determination, they set to work. Using bits of twine and twigs, they fastened a small red sail to the center of their icy vessel. When all was ready, they nudged it into the water, hopped aboard, and let the gentle current carry them out into the lively scene.

“Ahoy!” Nutty called as their ice boat glided forward. The ducks cheered, the swans nodded approvingly, and the geese flapped their wings in welcome. Soon, a grand game began—Nutty and Whiskers sailed their ice boat around in circles, chasing after their feathered friends while being playfully splashed in return. The birds weaved around them, creating waves that made their tiny vessel bob up and down. The two squirrels squealed with joy, their laughter carried across the lake on the spring breeze.

For hours, they raced, twirled, and dodged playful splashes. The red sail of their ice boat fluttered brightly against the blue sky, a bold flag of adventure. The water shimmered, reflecting the joy of the moment, and all around them, life pulsed with the thrill of the changing season.

As the sun began to dip, casting golden light across the water, Nutty and Whiskers knew it was time to head home. With help from their bird friends, they paddled back to shore, where they watched their beloved ice boat drift away, slowly melting into the great lake.

That evening, nestled in their cozy home high in the great oak tree, they curled up with warm acorn tea, their fur still damp from the day’s excitement. “That was the best adventure yet,” Whiskers sighed happily.

Nutty grinned, his eyes already twinkling with thoughts of their next great escapade. “And just think,” he said, “this is only the beginning of spring!”

Outside, the night was filled with the gentle sounds of rippling water and distant laughter of their feathered friends. The lakes were free once more, and so were the hearts of all who called the northwoods home.

~Wylddane

(Text and image copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)

The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains of the beachside cottage, casting golden light over the tangle of limbs and sheets where Jake and Sam lay. The air smelled of salt and the lingering warmth of their closeness. Sam stirred first, brushing his lips against Jake’s bare shoulder before stretching with a satisfied sigh.

"Morning," Jake murmured, pulling Sam closer for a slow, lazy kiss. "Sleep well?"

"Best sleep of my life," Sam admitted, his fingers tracing idle circles on Jake’s back. "Though I’m not sure if it was the ocean air or you."

Jake chuckled, pressing his forehead to Sam’s. "We should get up. Breakfast?"

Sam groaned but relented, following Jake to the small kitchen where they moved around each other with ease, making coffee, toasting bread, frying eggs. Between bites and sips, they talked about anything and everything—their childhoods, favorite books, embarrassing teenage crushes. They laughed often, comfortable in their growing intimacy.

After breakfast, they packed a small cooler and set out for the beach. The sun was high, warming the sand beneath their feet as they strolled along the shoreline, waves licking at their ankles. They splashed each other playfully before diving into the water, their laughter carried away on the breeze.

By midday, they were sprawled on a blanket, sharing a simple lunch of sandwiches and fruit. Jake popped a grape into Sam’s mouth, grinning as he tried to talk around it.

"You ever think about how days like this feel like they could last forever?" Sam mused, stretching out beside Jake.

"Yeah," Jake said, gazing at him. "Maybe they do, in some way."

The afternoon was spent exploring. They rented bikes, riding through winding coastal trails, stopping to take in the view or challenge each other to silly races. Later, they found a hiking path that led them to a secluded cliffside, where they sat side by side, watching the waves crash below.

"I could stay here forever," Sam said.

Jake bumped his shoulder. "Then I’d have to stay too."

On their way back to the cottage, they picked up dinner from a small seaside café—a simple meal of fresh seafood and crisp white wine. They ate on the porch, the sky painted in hues of deep orange and violet. The sound of the waves played in the background, a familiar, steady rhythm against their growing bond.

After dinner, as the stars began to prick the sky, Sam nudged Jake. "Let’s play a game."

Jake raised an eyebrow. "What kind of game?"

Sam grinned. "Whenever I hear your voice…"

Jake smirked, catching on. "I smile."

Sam nodded approvingly. "Whenever I hear your voice…"

Jake pretended to think. "The world sparkles."

They went back and forth, their words a mix of teasing and sincerity.

"I laugh."

"I pause and listen."

"I feel safe."

"I feel home."

As the evening deepened, their words slowed, turning into soft whispers between them, until their hands found each other’s, their lips met, and they made love beneath the quiet moonlight.

Much later, wrapped in each other’s warmth, Sam let out a sleepy murmur. "Every time I hear your voice…"

Jake, half-asleep, responded instinctively. "It calms my heart."

A pause. Then, Sam whispered again, "Every time I hear your voice…"

Jake smiled against his skin. "I know I am in love."

With that, they drifted into sleep, the sound of the ocean a lullaby to their deepening connection, their hearts forever intertwined.
​
~Wylddane

There was an old clock. It had been carefully constructed by a craftsman long ago—perhaps in the 1890s. Built with precision and care, it possessed a voice rich, deep, and melodic, its chimes resonating with the weight of time itself. This clock found its home in a farmhouse where a boy named George grew up. From his earliest memories, the clock was not just an object but a presence—an integral part of life on the farm.

Each morning, half-asleep, George would listen for the clock’s sonorous chime. When it struck the appointed hour, he would pull back the covers and begin his day. The clock was more than a timepiece; it was the rhythm of his existence. Its song marked breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It signaled the start of school, the time to study, and the time to sleep. As the boy grew, so too did his bond with the steadfast timekeeper. The clock became a companion, a faithful observer of the seasons of George’s life.

Years passed, and George became a man. The old clock remained by his side, its rhythmic ticking a quiet reminder of the passage of time. It ticked off the moments of his life: his marriage, the birth of his children, the joys and struggles of raising a family. Through every triumph and every sorrow, the clock continued its patient counting, as steady as the beating of a heart.

As George aged, so did the clock. Eventually, he retired and built a cabin on a quiet lake in the Wisconsin northwoods. Of course, the old clock came with him, its familiar voice filling the rustic home. But time had worn down its gears, and in an almost human way, it began to falter. It would lose track of minutes, its once-precise chimes now erratic. The roles had shifted—George, who had once relied on the clock to track the hours, now helped the clock keep time. Two trusted companions, one human, one machine, both aging, both facing the quiet inevitability of life’s passage.

Then came the day when George lay on his deathbed, his breath slowing, his body weary from the weight of the years. At 9:25 a.m., his soul took flight on its final journey. And at that very moment, the old clock, his lifelong companion, fell silent. Its rhythmic tick-tock, like a heartbeat, stilled. Its voice, which had once counted the hours of a life well lived, would be heard no more.
​
~Wylddane

In the Quiet of Us

The moon hung low in the sky, its silver glow casting soft shadows across the small beachside cottage where Jake and Sam lay entwined. The waves outside whispered against the shore, a rhythmic lullaby to their quiet, intimate discovery. The air between them shimmered with something more than desire—it was reverence, the slow unraveling of guarded hearts, the merging of souls as much as bodies.

Jake traced lazy patterns across Sam’s bare shoulder, watching the way his breath hitched in response, the way his skin warmed beneath each touch. It was as if every movement spoke a language only they could understand. Sam, in turn, let his fingertips dance over Jake’s chest, marveling at the steady heartbeat beneath, the pulse that now felt as essential to him as his own.

It was not just passion that filled the space between them, but something deeper—an unspoken knowing. Each touch was not just touch, but revelation. The curve of a collarbone, the whisper of lips against a jawline, the way Jake shivered at Sam’s breath against his neck—it all became sacred, a slow and patient unveiling of trust and love.

“I didn’t know it could be like this,” Sam murmured, his voice hushed in the dim light. He rested his forehead against Jake’s, their breaths mingling in the space between them.

Jake smiled, brushing a hand through Sam’s hair. “Me neither.”

And yet, here they were, discovering not only each other’s bodies but the hidden corners of their hearts. Every glance, every sigh, every shared silence wove them closer together, threads of something unbreakable taking shape between them.

In the quiet hours of the night, they simply existed together—wrapped in warmth, in understanding. A touch was magic. A smile lit up the darkness. A whispered word calmed the storm inside. Neither had ever felt this kind of pull before—this undeniable, consuming gravity toward another person.

As dawn began to creep in through the sheer curtains, they stirred, reluctant to part from the cocoon of their embrace. Jake stretched, reaching for the blanket to drape over them before pressing a lingering kiss to Sam’s temple. Sam sighed contentedly, shifting closer, unwilling to let go just yet.

Eventually, they rose, their movements slow and unhurried. Wrapped in nothing but soft morning air and each other’s presence, they made their way to the small kitchen. Jake poured two cups of coffee, the rich aroma filling the space between them. Sam leaned against the counter, watching him, feeling the profound peace that had settled in his bones.

They stepped out onto the porch, steaming mugs in hand, and let the world unfold before them. The horizon stretched endlessly, the sky painted in soft pinks and golds, a quiet promise of the day to come.

Side by side, they stood, drinking in the moment as much as the coffee in their hands. No words were needed. In the hush of the morning, in the warmth of each other’s presence, they dreamed of the future—of sunrises shared, of laughter, of a love that would never wane.

Jake reached over, threading his fingers through Sam’s, squeezing gently.

Sam turned to him, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Where do we go from here?”

Jake exhaled, looking out at the endless sea before them. “Wherever the tide takes us.”

~Wylddane

The sun shone warmly through the budding branches of the great oak tree as Nutty and Whiskers scurried about, making the final preparations for their grand celebration. Their bird friends were returning home after spending the winter in the sunny southern lands, and the two squirrels wanted to welcome them with a feast fit for royalty.

Beneath the oak’s sprawling limbs, they had arranged a grand spread—piles of sunflower seeds, heaps of birdseed, and even a few gourmet treats they had saved just for this occasion. The air buzzed with excitement as the first familiar calls echoed through the forest.

“They’re here!” Whiskers chattered, his tail twitching with joy.

A flurry of wings filled the air as the robins arrived, their red breasts puffed with pride. “Oh, what a journey it has been!” one robin exclaimed. “We braved fierce storms and saw fields of blooming flowers down south. But nothing compares to home!”

Not long after, the honking of geese rang out over the treetops. A great V-shaped formation approached, circling once before landing near the party. “You wouldn’t believe the sights we’ve seen!” a proud gander declared. “Great rivers, glistening lakes, and endless fields stretching far beyond the horizon.”

Then, with a sudden blur of iridescent green, the hummingbirds zipped into the scene. “And we,” one of them trilled, “danced among the most vibrant blossoms you could ever imagine, sipping the sweetest nectar from flowers that glowed in the golden sun.”

As the birds shared their incredible tales, Nutty and Whiskers listened with wide eyes, hanging onto every word. They laughed, gasped, and marveled at the wonders their friends had witnessed. Then, with joyous energy, they all began to play—darting, chasing, and weaving through the branches in a merry game of tag. Laughter and delighted squawks filled the air as the celebration continued long into the afternoon.

At last, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, Nutty and Whiskers sighed with contentment. Their friends were home, their hearts were full, and the forest was alive once more with the songs of spring.
​
~Wylddane

(Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)