it will look like we’re not moving but we are

the great gold light

on pine trunks and limbs

as seen outside the yellow cabin

at 8:10am –

how i watch it from the top bunk

dim and brighten again

with sleepy eyes


ami and i welcoming morning

in the cool air on the wet dock

and eagle soaring in the distance

whose identity is given away

by the occasional flash of head/tail white we see

when ki turns in a certain direction


like thunder shirts joolie and i joke

about the life preserver vests

we zip and buckle on


hawk-eye daisy amber says

about the red/a little orange wildflower

sprouting up alone at the old homestead site

on our way back out to the gravel parking lot


the gingham and rainbow shine patterned pencils

that i select from the geocache

on kid’s island

whose surface is covered

in the tan/goldorange

of fallen pine needles


it will look like we’re not moving, but we are – mostly ami says

from her steering spot at the back of the canoe

while joolie provides the motor in the front

thirty degrees is the angle you want to be at to the waves on a windy day


solitaireing on the floor

while we each take turns talking

and i find that i don’t like hearing

what i’m saying –

maybe because it all just sounds like old patterns

that i’m ready to break out of