From dusky fir
ascends the heart break
of the Swainson’s thrush,
gray-green movement
stirring the summer twilight.
At meadow’s edge my infant daughter
sturdily answers the woodland voice,
La-a-a-a-ahh; alaah!
Again and again.
Soundless tears stream,
my constricting fears
of fatherhood
released.
(Number 4 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
Having its share of inflations
and troubles
the boardwalk remains–
a sunny segment of community beach funk.
Too many sunglasses, incense sticks and Tibetan imports,
more rollerbladers than rastafarians or surfers.
Around one corner a palapas set, built for a movie,
Over there jugglers and musicians perform.
No muscle beach, the bodies are normal and flawed.
A red-billed, black-legged gull
reigns over it all,
laughing.
Climb the Big Quil trail often
and you’ll feel the mountain’s moods,
know the flowers’ changing faces.
Today the wind blows clouds in two directions,
and through the fog
old snags seem to have new growth.
At Marmot Pass the mist makes
your whole life shimmer.
Every day is a good day to make the climb.
