Joined now by a Japanese
women’s choir, our drums
weave voices and bodies
into song.
When we thunder an ancient
Hokkaido fisherman’s
chant, another voice
rises, sings with us—
of our fathers
who fought
on bleeding islands
under the rising sun.
We yell, stomp
our feet, haul
the catch of fish
and smile
at our children,
who dance and hoop
the sea’s energy.
Aransas National Wildlife Refuge
Texas Gulf Coast, 1989
Look! There!
Fresh from the cover
of Birds of North America,
its bouncy flight
paints shrub tops
red, green, yellow, blue—
leads you
along the grassy
path, binoculars
drawn, eye on bird.
I glance down,
see the diamondback
fly past
your bare ankle.
For decades
I’ve returned
to this rocky outpost,
sat beside this lodgepole pine,
gazed across Rosario Strait.
With wife, daughter,
subsequent lover—
now with only
this borrowed dog.
Sun blurs my tears
into star flies
that moisten lichen,
and call forth a trumpet
of Canada geese.
Somehow
it all makes
sense.
Orcas Island
Near Mount Cruiser
we abandon trail,
camp among creamy bistort
under the teeth of
Henderson ridge—
gateway to backcountry.
Exhilarated, we
join our bodies.
At this exact
moment
Ariel Meadow
steps through silent
vast, crosses
trackless snow,
into our lives
forever.
Good sex,
and oatmeal
in the morning.
Once I offered
this truth as a quilt
patch, a blessing
for my Zen teacher,
who was getting married.
Her husband proved
to be alcoholic,
and the marriage
soon ended.
Years later,
my bowl
of oatmeal
remains
a comfort,
but a hug
surely would
improve its
taste.
Late for the morning ferry,
my only hope this aging motorcycle
I haven’t ridden much lately.
It’s damp, cold—tough
on the elderly battery.
Flip choke,
pull clutch handle,
turn key,
push ignition.
Venerable 1100 turns over,
not too bad for a first try.
By the fourth,
just a spent groan,
dimmed lights.
Dammit!
Then, something never dared
over years of our relationship.
I stop, breathe, lean down
with leather hands,
embrace the outer carbs,
cylinders, [...]
First a twitter
from out by the breakers.
Fresh from clouds,
a south-surging mass
traces tiny glyphs
in the wet sand.
Flap your
elbows,
flutter your
fingers.
They’ll
let you
join them–
one proud
peep
among a zillion.
Copalis Beach, Washington
