We woke to white feathers under the orange tree
and the door of the coop aghast.
Our last two hens, those yogis, martyred. Unhappy auguries on polling day.
All morning the weather mumbled its sombre oracles. I’d like to hope
the birds were the last thing we had to lose
to pay for deliverance tonight. But only the saved are certain.
It turns out the fox just got lucky
and the chooks are just dead
and none of this is a metaphor for anything…
I pick up a rock on the lakeshore,
a riverstone the glacier left,
now cleft perfectly down the middle,
a notch at one end.
This is how one feels,
half a self,
We are here, perhaps, to look for the rest of who we are,
and that could be anything—
a lake, a range, a woman,
a pink robin,
one day in particular.
Perhaps one is everywhere one looks.
I—Too much summer too close to home
Warm days in mid September.
Each year summer comes early
and each year we forget and
say what happened to the spring?
as though we ever had spring
on the sandstone coast of this
dry-eyed island, inching its
way north to the equator.
And then whatever we’re call-
ing the season goes and it
comes again in October
and then it’s gone till sometime
in late December,…
I have a general theory: keep going.
I have a rider: watch for transitions.
And another: beware false summits.
Prepare for the walk
by taking the walk.
Go a little faster than you should
and a little slower than you’d like.
Notice the pink mountain berry
brilliant as a hooker’s lipstick,
the pink robin on the fallen log above the amber stream,
the waratah, her crimson fingers curled
Walking the other sunny afternoon
along the Frankland Sands
I heard a fish jump in shallows.
The sound drew me, and then it drew the fish,
small and sleek and insouciant, translucent as the water,
which was so shallow and so tannin-clear
I could make out easing along the lakebed beneath
the shadow of the fish.
That, I thought,
following the shape the sun drew of the fish,
until I lost it,
is where the…