SITTING HOME
Under the third Atmospheric River of the week in GRAYland.
Rain, and rain again.
This drizzle grows nothing but distance.
Alder and willow yellow early this year,
nighthawks lose out to winter and somewhere
out there at least one black hole motions
come here come here to us, the alders, the nighthawks
and all these fragments of light and shimmer
that we call “Now.”
Breathe deep this damp distance, this speeding blackness
that holds us, without touching, together.
appeared in the chapbook Semaphore from Tangram Press, Berkeley.
I like the presences in this poem and how it feels fresh with the present. And of course the nighthawks. I've only seen one in our yard. It was resting in a fence board at dusk and the chickens alerted me. It was out of place and chickens being chicken were upset.