LONGRIDGE, MORNING ON THE EEL RIVER

Seeping from beneath the windows
golden motes drift like webs in the sun.
Your smile, soft at dawn,
the lips of darkness
melt in the morning light.
I rise like fog, like a dancer.

Across the valleys
mist rises in unison,
like voices of birds in the pines
Strung on pitchpine fenceposts
barbed wire hums, plucked
by the feet of birds.
The dog groans softly in sleep,
the cat pushes darkness from his bones.

As you kindle the fire
smoke rises in the morning fog.
In the canyon, distant sounds
of the Eel River gurgling.
If you listen closely
you can imagine conversations
spoken in any voice you want.

5/1985
CPITS workshop Mimi Albert
added, rev. 2/18