they say squirrel

the three of us are talking about some shrub
or perennial and one of us points up into sky
where an eagle flies nestwards with something
dangling from it’s talons
the shape and looseness/limpness of the dangly thing
makes me think snake
but someone else can see better
and they say squirrel and yes
that’s what it is
tail flopping in the winds


almost like moonglow

woodsmoke smell wafting in open windows
just about the time sandhill
might be lighting up
their celebratory birthday fire

spring peepers and the chorus frog song
lulling me to sleep on the orange couch
where the 70something degree breeze
lilts on through the open window,
the LED streelight almost
like moonglow spilling in
in the dream i drift off into
there is a tommy yarmulke
(a weird al yankovic impersonator)
and someone is calling his name

how we go from dinner to dusk
dusk to ice cream
ice cream to almost sleep
all without turning on a light

sun spilling everywhere

the clatter of a loose front fender
on the black cruiser bike that i ride around the circles
the neighborhood is made of
special bike wind in our hair, ami and i
commenting on how the frogs go silent
in the mini wetlands
as we pedal past
and the sun
spilling everywhere on us/around us

we move through

6something a.m. in the darkness
and things i would normally laugh at
in decent hours most likely won’t become funny
until at least 8am

the constant, though imagined – but i swear i can hear them
sing chorus sound of the spring peepers
in the background
of everything
most of the day
this part of the coast
comes with
laughing on an early morning amtrak bus
headed south about butt cakes and muck boots
and how if we switched the phrases it’d be
muck cakes and butt boots and how these would work
as knuckle tattoos as well:
muck cake
butt boot
and then laughing again about kindergarten-teachering
randy who refuses to be nice
(would you want to be treated that way, randy?)
all while the low-lying cloudgray dew damp fog sings
as lichen, as moss, as coniferous needles
filling the coastal, then inland valleys we move through

sitting across andrew and christie at the dinner table
which just happens to be hurtling through time/space
on a south bound train,
jennifer at my side, when andrew says something
about working for amazon i ask
ok, so, do you have a mini basketball court and
bean bags and m&ms and fun/cool stuff
in your office
the snow, the trees, the train moving through it

and our view of it all from the sleeper car
(where everything is mini)
and the tears in my eyes and me saying
i love this place
and later: not as in ‘here’ but as in
this planet, this universe


back over the wave

gigantic windchimes sending soft sound
on the winds that knock through them
on a porch across the way
alongside the sway of multicolored bouys hanging
on thick rope in a tree

how the wind picks up the spray of surf and sends it
backwards back over the waves
as they crash forwards
and then ther’s the way that the morning light lands
and moves through it all
the hint of purplepink on the tips and edges
of thin and tiny petals of some small daisies
i pluck from a sideyard on my return
from the ocean hello and morning run
one thing i want to bring with
but am unable to:
the entire swaths of dark sand
and all the glimmers dotted across them

the tiny bell that tells

the fog gathering around the tree-filled point
that we beach-walk towards, wondering if its fog
that just looks like fog from a distance but that we’ll never reach or
fog that we’ll eventually be able to touch/feel/see/walk through
how donna, never having met us before, somehow knew
of the tradition of briging the workshop instructors
with chocolate (she hands one bar to each of us)
the tiny bell that tells us that time is up and
the floorspill of photos we get to pick from
and the encouragement to write fear-wards and
using every river/water related sense i can
in 5 minutes or less
while the room is quiet
with this concentration
i’m like a dog always rolling over to show
its belly orĀ  bending in half, not necessarily submissive,
but using this smiling and open face to let other sknow
i have no intention of aggressing upon them
i say

in the clearing // i sing

something about the day
(its light, its temperature)
that makes it a kind of day
that implores one
to walk into/through it
(a literal, not figurative, walk)


to make room for practice after observing
it weakens the weave of the fabric of us


one of your gifts is that you care, capital C care he says
how can you do that in a liberatory, non-coercive way
and then he reads

the marge piercy poem
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds…


up in the clearing on slater’s land
the sunlight hitting a strip of clouds just right enough
to make a two-color rainbow in it


walking the hard-packed snow and
mooshy gravel
i sing
to the road, the trees, the sun, the sky, the cows, the birds
trish talking about the waves (contractions)
and how alyssa coached her through them
(you’re not riding them, you’re diving under them and getting curious as they pass over)


you really need to have a baby trish jokes about the meals people have been bringing because you’d really like the food