Tableau: fake flowers
in an enameled clay vase,

the kind with birds
and bird-like lines–

yesterday’s coffee
rewarmed, the bitterness

doused in lait
partiellement écrémé–

bright horns gild
the otherwise silence,

some neighbor listening
softly to Ring of Fire–

beyond, the water.
Yesterday we watched

the tide sweep out,
skookumchuch slipping

through fingers
of land, with vortexes

and contrary eddies,
spoken, taken aback, deadly–

orange urchins, broken
like eggshells, littered

the rocks, exposed
and lit upon by

watchful gulls.
We stood at the edge

and guessed at depth
and a light rain fell,

is falling now, although
it’s difficult to say–

actions muddled by shades
of gray, is it fog, or mist

that settles
on the pines? I don’t

particularly care
to make a distinction–