Monday, August 3, 1981

Short haiku of sorts

I awaken in a glass house, 
the Straits blend into fog, 
the horizon, indistinct as this morning.

Two payphones in the basement. 
People wait to make long-distance calls. 
Slot machines collect change at the end of the line.

Evening sky the color of salmonberries
A dull grain sheen on the water 
an unseasonable hue.

Volkswagen engine valves clatter. 
House finches nesting in the eaves
rearrange themselves and chatter.

The face of the glacier gave way 
and 11 people died on Mt. Rainier.
Yet it floats, sublime, at dawn.

July? 1981

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