the county building.
He bemoans the budget, continued

layoffs, disappearances
of old friends.

Fluffy flakes begin to fall.
I lean to catch one

on my tongue, stop short—
they are down feathers.

We glance up,
spot a peregrine falcon

on a low tree branch.
The raptor clutches

a pigeon in its left talon, rips
flesh with hooked beak.

There are young to fledge
on a tower cornice.

Well, as they say, it’s a jungle out there.

Or, liberally extending M.L. King’s famous comment, “We may have all come on different ships, but we’re in the same boat now.”

This, despite underlying patterns that may save our bacons for awhile.  For example, urban peregrines strike more pigeons with black rumps than white.

She would come calling
when her path brought
her back to Seattle.
Late one night I returned
to my befuddled cabin
after a starry walk along the Sound.
Curled in my bed, she smiled hello—
I’ll stay the night.

By morning the bed sheets smelled
of firewood smoke
and the sea.

West Seattle, 1971

(No. 5 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

When I recently read this poem at a workshop, a young woman quietly included the following among her written comments: “I did this–this is how I got together with my husband.” Well, I wish her the depth of experience we had on our journey over the next 25 years–including raising a wonderful daughter, building a home together, wandering many mountains and rivers. And though there came a time when we chose to remove our rings and go separate ways, we remain dear friends and share an extended family.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

But not today.
Fuck it.
I am old and lonely.

This time, it is he who smiles first—
then drives on,
not looking back.

In August, 1964, I crossed mountains and deserts, finally descended into the dream-green of western Washington for the first time. For some reason, I clearly remember driving that segment of Fourth Avenue–perhaps in order to set yet another hook in time to facilitate a visit from my older self. This encounter now often happens.

What conversation would you have with your younger self? I’ve had many, but on this day I was startled by the conversation he had with me, all in just a smile.

By the time we cross
Lake Washington, I quietly
try on a sympathetic
Buhhhh, about every
third breath. It’s not
so bad when you
get used to
it.

You can learn a lot when given a moment’s opportunity to step into another’s shoes. Further, it seems to me that any chance to practice aging and, gulp, dying, is invaluable. And, ultimately, life affirming.

(No. 52 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Alas.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Dark clouds to the north
and in my chest.
Wherever I look,
sadness and doubt.

Numbing tiredness.
The thrumming of ferry pistons
promises my exhaustion
a lovely short nap.

Misty morning bike ride,
spray on my pant leg.
No bother,
it will dry
and brush off.

Gray sky, water, air,
dull green wash along the shore.
We slip into a fog bank.
There, only
the pattern of the water
and a sentinel cormorant.

Morning poems collected on the way to Seattle.