In your absence the dog has elected to sit outside moping on the deck in the late morning cool. In the forest, a constant call and response, and she, though pampered, still animal, more attuned to the language of birds. I read a book on it, am now trying to tell a cry from the canopy from a sigh from the floor. Or a whine from the door– she doesn’t want in, she wants me out– […]
A little drunk you stopped and stooped to see what LP was splintered on the walk as two men smoking outside the tattoo shop looked on, amused, Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life— we walked back past the taqueria and playground, the pot dispensary, its night -melded neon, a temple with rows of prayer wheels outside, you turned them one by one in front of me, but said you said a few prayers on my behalf, love still the end and all of […]
More rain, irregularly– halfway across the bridgespan but no further still, the return of clouds is a comfort, having complained about them all my life they’re still mysterious here sky-like, there, hurt pink, hematosed, light pollution probably– now it’s stopped raining and the silence is distressing erasure by halves worse than none at all
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 […]
{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 […]
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.
OPTIONAL POETRY 