And as the sun set, rain from a clear-ish sky, everything softening, on the lake a convoy of geese, lines of goslings; we sat under umbrellas meant for the sun, waited for the rain to ebb; construction workers with headlamps on steered an aluminum boat through the skeleton of pylons; the new bridge half done; I’ll move long before it’s finished. I know nothing is forever. Nothing is forever. Nothing is forever, but sometimes I wish it was.
Don’t comfort me with apples, comfort me with plums; a little softer, a little more bitter this early in the season, a little more easily bruised by careless thumbs.
Way to get back on the horse, she said. With real horses I’ve only been thrown once, then learned how to sit the spooks, stutter -steps and caprices of half-ton beasts. To be fair, I would not canter with a blind spot under my nose, would not risk my delicate bones to rise over a faux brick wall. The worst was Louie, an off-the-track thoroughbred, still youngish, responding to any threat or stress by taking off […]
The morning off, should walkto the market and buy plums for a tart. But it’s startedto drizzle, and are they even in season? This place isnothing compared to where I’ve just been; I’m in no moodto tease out the beauty of this pink rhododendron.It’s gaudy, domesticated, and the roses have blight.This morning has no draw, feeling uneasy as breakfastafter harsh words were spoken. Even the sun is a little off —sickly, wan– unsure if it will clear up or […]
Today I’ve heard Led Zeppelin on the radio, incessantly, including D’ya Mak’er twice.What does it mean? And today in the garden, a random Russian woman told me, there’s no suchthing as perfect in this life, joining a long series of Russian female archetypes that arc through my life story and give unsolicited advice. Maybe the pointpatiently waiting for a sign is that after a while onegets bored and elects to just act. It’s not likelove is a finite quantity; where’s the […]
At an early enough hourtravel merges with dreaming; had to keep switching stationsas the landscape shifted, caught Sunny FM back alongthe Wenatchee and some show hosted by a DJ named Uncle Dave. The vineyard and orchard irrigation systems come on early,to minimize loss from evaporation, weaving cocoons of water in the shadows of the valleys. Some corners of these hills the sunrise doesn’t touch; at the first summit it dropped well below freezing. But soon this gave way to golden Skagit country, horses in paddocks, happy in […]
Everyone is gone. The lake has calmed, its blue belies its depth. I’ve finally adjusted to the hues, the surprising softness of the landscape, given its history of sweeping fires. I should try and sleep soon, getting on the road early, but I can’t take my eyes off the contrast of blue and butte, or the recent arrival of a pair of magpies, semaphores in flight. I might stay up to wish upon my cat star– it’s not all a loss then, I’ve relearned […]
The neighbors have gone and the quail that haunts their arbor is losing his voice, sounding more like a tired dog toy than the lothario that he is. Yet, as I watch he’s attracted a girl: He obviously doesn’t need my pity. Everything is lifting now, and part of it is wine. But, not all – now that she’s caught his eye she leaves and he follows, both sharing the same low flight. Speaking of, the floatplanes have […]
The trick is to keep the handsbusy: A moment of slack and the boat begins to heel.Tomorrow I’ll return, taking Blewett pass; I’ll miss sunrise over the umlauts of Leavenworth, might arrive later than I ought. The art of losing isn’t hardto master, but forgetting is another matter. Whathave I left in my wake? There’s whitecaps rising on the water, few boats, the forceof the wind now slamming doors and forcing in others.
Birds lacking teethwill swallow stones, grind them in their gizzarduntil too smooth to do work. They too gorge on abundance; we stuff it in our cropfor later digestion. Down by Beebe creek the vegetation was two -faced, showing silveras the wind thrashed it down. We followeda swallow-tail through a dappling of poplars,so young they barely resembled the treesthey will become.
OPTIONAL POETRY 