OPTIONAL POETRY

The days get shorter
but don’t they feel longer.
Tired. Such a gray
little word.

it hasn’t rained
like this in September
in ten years they said.

Angry almost, angled
and acute.

The sloping shelters
gave us no respite.

They blink their wings
outside the window glass

longing for the moon
but how they’ll settle

for less
dragging dusty

wings along
as an afterthought

a starless night
the cold has a edge to it

the dog keeps barking
at nothing much

just the house settling
and us still awake

with only a lamp on
a beacon for moths

the envy of hundreds
of unreflecting eyes

Down in the valley
I saw a white horse,

I though to wish on it,
but took too long
thinking.

The next pasture over
was a flock of sheep,

still in the distance,
but I’m sure up close
they were moving.

Just how tired
do you have to be

to be unable to think
of just one thing
you want?

Just how far will I
need to drive

before I admit
that it’s possible
to move in one sense

but still be
stuck overall?

{Packing}

From the upstairs window
half the view is gold;
dried grass and Russian
Thistle, what tumbleweeds
are when they still have
roots.  The other half
is blue, pallid, or placid,
it depends on your mood.
On the neighbor’s roof
five magpies are raising
the alarm, chasing
a flicker from the dried
-out pine. A bee won’t leave
well enough alone, a thin
breeze comes to shake
the spider’s lines,
and when it comes down
to it, letting go is as natural
as holding on, but us, we’ve
lost our guiding instinct
and lean too heavily
towards flight.

It’s strange how little
time is required

before a presence
is noticeably missed;

all day on the boat
fifty-one miles up-lake

one waterfall
the rest dried up

a couple of flag
stops, exchanging

mail bags by pole,
a six foot draw

no excuse
for risk

a couple going
backpacking

dropped off
at the trailhead

and we all waved
and waved

because we’d never
see them again

At the first mountain pass
were pockets of breath

clouds softening
the void beyond
the guardrails

The second pass
was still dry and hot
but ice shone from
the cliffs–

No, just low sun caught
on freshly exposed
rock. A portent.

In the Arboretum,
a cloud sat on the bridge,

coda to a morning
shower.  The day turned

hot but the promise
of rain stayed, waiting

for some signal,
indecipherable for all

but it, but obviously
there, this is a well

-crafted comeback
it’s been making.

He said the elbow gets thrown after the hips,
the real power is in motion, and I could feel it

in the hit. What a class, to catalogue our hardest
points, detail vulnerabilities, elbows down,

straighten that wrist, joints opening up
like questions that should remain unasked.

There was an island.
I’m not sure what all’s left

after the hurricane,
division the same as multiplying

by fractions, loss masquerading
as gain, but then again

long before it hit we hiked
over to the Chimney

on the Bay side, a brick stack
remained, the rest imagination—

this wasn’t the first time,
and won’t be the last.

Things get displaced
in a memory, I wonder

if I could still trace a path
from the Pouldeau Lagoon

to Ranger Station, dunes
moving around like shook

out blankets, edges slipping
under the big blue Gulf—

I haven’t stepped foot
in Pascagoula in over

eight years, but I still think
about someday taking a boat

out to watch the molten
aspect of one more sunset

that I’ll never get quite right,
to hear just after nightfall

the calls of great herons,
rusty saws or Satan himself,

flat-footing across the Water’s
Crossing, to shake a yellow can

of seasoning into a shrimp boil
and meet the ink-globed eyes

of the recently deceased,
to ponder on the way

a horseshoe crab carries
the weight of prehistoric dreams

and maybe there is something
to be gained from the way

we cling to whatever we kept,
whatever was left, no matter

how little, and especially then—
like those tiny snails

clung hard to the grasses
in the salt marsh, evaporation

at work, losses, again—
but we were nonetheless

amazed to watch the crystals
appear from out of nowhere,

and of course we knew better,
we just didn’t care.

A large dark joy of evergreen
forests, this stellar’s jay
scrapes through the gutters,
utters guttural croaks,
tossing compacted bits
of pine needles and moss
to the deck boards below,
ostensibly in search of food
but I’ve always thought
this bird is sort of a punk,
with his shock black crest
and hard-eyed stare
he says he doesn’t give
a damn, damn, damn,
until I start to get close.