High on the Big Quil Trail,
I traverse a scree slope
below Buckhorn’s
basalt pinnacles.
At my feet, the season’s final
scarlet paintbrush.
Ahead, yellow cedars drape the way.
I climb above the trail,
cut fragrant branches
to remind me of summer days.
Winter snows arrive
so soon.
(No. 93 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
The Swainson’s thrush
and western tanager have quietly
departed. Only the winter
wren occasionally lights
the somber forest.
If mild weather continues
into the fall, good fortune. But soon
the decline will be more noticeable,
leaving nothing but aching grayness
and cold rain.
It will be
time to lie
down.
(No. 99 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
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.
Near our trailer park home
I explore the meander
of a narrow stream.
Dark gurgle
discloses a mortal
struggle. I grab
the slimy tail,
flop it to the bank,
drag it home.
Proud.
It’s nothing
but a spawning salmon
full of
worms.
Once again
to my mother’s husband,
I do not measure up,
will never be
a fisher-
man.
Seward, Alaska, 1952
It is impossible
to pedal my bike
through morning air
carrying sadness or anger.
The light is alive,
my knees young
and Queen Anne’s Lace
doilies
the roadside.
(No. 44 in a series of responses to Han-Shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
Long out of print, this guide
summons me to the reaches
of Glacier Peak—
through fields of avalanche
lilies, red swirls
of late season blueberries.
The time nears
when memories serve
as better boots.
Shall I present
this trusted companion
to my young friend
who seeks answers
within these
mountains?
Here.
(No. 100 in a series of responses to Han-Shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
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
After arguing,
flat, cabin-bound,
we grump the Murden Cove
trail. No homes back then,
just second growth and silence–
now whooshed by raucous wing beats
and bold laughter. Craning
our necks, we spy a flash of red,
black, white, then scandalous
full view.
We laugh and pileate
all the way
home.
(No. 64 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
