OPTIONAL POETRY

At an early enough hour
travel merges with dreaming; 

had to keep switching stations
as the landscape shifted, 

caught Sunny FM back along
the 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 their herds; along
the Sauk Prairie I swear

I saw bison. The trucking traffic 
on 90 ended the reverie.

How many roadsigns tempted me, 
go south to Yakima, go east 

to Cle Elum. Go back, go back
goodbye  is too good a word.  

All I can think is that if I had gone 
north to Okanagan I’d be well

past the border.  Sure, I liked your 
face.  But  I like the unknown more.

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
names, can sight them

through reckoning, at least
out here. Might be harder

in the city. No matter,
I am starting to see

trends, no need for stars
to hammer them home; 

aware what falls will
rise and what rises will fall;

e.g. am gaining practice
with declinations.

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 changed

their landing pattern,
buzzing this hill

all day long. The winds
must be favorable,

having shifted;
somehow we all

have registered
the change.

The trick is to keep the hands
busy: 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 hard
to master, but forgetting 

is another matter.  What
have I left in my wake?

There’s whitecaps 
rising on the water,

few boats, the force
of the wind now

slamming doors and 
forcing in others. 

Birds lacking teeth
will swallow stones,

grind them in their gizzard
until too smooth to do

work. They too gorge
on abundance;

we stuff it in our crop
for later digestion. 

Down by Beebe creek 
the vegetation was two

-faced, showing silver
as the wind thrashed 

it down. We followed
a swallow-tail through

a dappling of poplars,
so young they barely

resembled the trees
they will become.

It’s not finding a voice
so much as honing it;

a mouthful of stones 
will sharpen a tongue.  

I wish these finches would get
to the point.  Mismade the coffee

in a haze of sleep. Resembles
creosote, not to mention

the taste.  A flock of finches
is called a fancy, pairing well

with the flights of swallows,
but I prefer a knot of them;

once again drawn to that
shifting shape, an illusion

of depth as they hurtle
small bodies at one

another, the cliff,
the ground. Why

do they do it?
Does free will

come with size,
or at the expense

of instinct?

I think it must be Kenmore Air
that does the run up here,

flying right over the house;
it’s clear today, and everyone

is packing up as he rattles
the panes.  I’m staying in

this heat until the last possible
moment. Have been thinking

about the vagrancies of sound;

how if you go fast enough
you travel before it, how

thunder is only closing 
a gap.  It’s still too cool

for heat lightning, but
when I next return

it may have started.  
And whatever this is,

it may have passed.
And will I miss it? As

Hemingway put it,
we’re all bitched 

from the start. 
So use it.  So I’ll

sit outside wringing 
every last drop 

as my coffee mug
attracts pale spiders 

and other insects 
too small to have 

a common name.

This has turned into a sort of bout.

Not a title fight but I’ve certainly
gone the distance:

185 miles and several days;
the best I could do

at such short notice.
Tomorrow I’ll work I say,

I’ll right the ship, not write
it; a pity for it to end this way,

in a desert beside a thin
lake but the water here

is deeper than I imagined
you couldn’t reach bottom

if you tried.

(And you wouldn’t.)
 

[Uff da! Sorry folks, not sure what the heck happened today, but if anything it was cathartic.  Will now return to regularly scheduled occasional poetry]