dusk announces the timeless march
of the stars. I can see Orion’s Belt
emerging through the trees.
Then, his shoulders and club.
Then the Pleiades, gazelle leaps.
The hunter and the hunted gird their loins.
The winter pear tree glows,
rivaling the rubescent poison oak.
A woodpecker probes the depths of the pine.
A staccato rhythm. Time to stack firewood.
The incessant drone and purr of chainsaws,
a distant symphony echoes in smoky canyons,
a blue haze tangles in the limbs of tall trees.
The owlets practice their newly minted song,
it’s a bit hit and miss, so they say whooo-hoo
with reckless abandon along with the coyotes.
But the crickets haven’t gotten the memo
that summer’s really over.
So, they carry on, as crickets do
in joyous tintinnabulation and encore.
Harvest moon clears the ridge,
filled with light from the well of the past.
Frogs join in the lively august chorus.
Bottled light spills across the path.
The young buck sharpens his new horns
on the downed cypress limbs.
He devours the plum and ivy clippings.
The acrid odor of early fires,
a pungent memory announces
the arrival of the dark season.
10/6 Mill Valley Library non-fiction workshop with Sarah Broderick k
I wrote this is a prose peace and everyone said it was a poem so I put it into lines to see what it looks like. I am still undecided what to do with it. I should’ve kept the prose version as well. Whenever a prose poem is converted into a poem, many lines need to change. We’re not there yet. Still debating what to do.
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