Catching Fish

for Totally Optional Prompts

It’s a mizzle fog at the edge of the pond,
in both directions the shoreline tangle
fades to cedar mist, the tackle box
rattles to the ground, deep in the smell

of scales and moss is the same old bait,
the same old hooks. The line drops
on the water and wrinkles reflections,
the first catch is a weed, then a stick

on the bottom, never the old
iron jawed, copper scaled,
thunder tailed lunker with flame
in his eye that grabs your chest

and rips out quietude. Ahead of a rising sun
the remaining patchy fog finds refuge
among the trees on the southern ridge,
and the day changes to idle speculation

where catching fish is beside the point.

Reruns

Political theatre on vacation
in the summer sultry,
reruns are in fashion,
old bluster, old rhetoric,

same old ending.
Dog Days are nothing new,
leftovers don’t play well.
The fall schedule has promise,

same old plots and punch line,
but a different backdrop,
different dancers.
My only hope is to get senior

enough to forget
and think this is all new.

Sign Crew

I set posts and hang signs.
I’ve never been
‘16 Miles to Whisper Creek’
but I put up the sign.

I name roads and mark the curves
so travelers stay between the lines.
I flag the warning signs,
‘Limited Visibility’,

‘Watch For Cross Traffic’,
the furrowed weather,
winds wailing to lost migrants,
frogs growling at the stars.

Evening Primrose

for Totally Optional Prompts

Under a jade moon a flower blooms
in the garden, the white blossom
could be crinkled silk, the fragrance
could be classic Spanish, morning fog

hangs against the back fence.
Katharine approaches the north window
the way a fishing boat approaches
the dock, she gets close, reaches out

to the curtain with a light touch
so she doesn't drift away.

Weekend Tangle

for 3 Word Wednesday

Fragrant blossoms and twirling skirts
decorate a weekend street fair.

In a tiled plaza drifters
avoid an unexpected flower.

In a tangle of brush and vines
a skirt and a drifter couldn't care less.

Thumbing a Ride

Phil stands in the window
with a gray beard and a grin,
he talks to himself a lot
lately, it's been five years

since his last friend left.
He aims his thumb flat to the right,
going my way? He doesn't want
a ride, his head is drifting and

he wants company. Phil watches
the wind-blow in the vacant lot
across the street, a dance of flags
in retreat, it's hard to tell which

will end up in the blackberries,
which will blow on down the street
and land in the gutter,
which will look back like a teenage

girl, looking to see who's watching,
Phil's watching.

One Clear Day

The weather changed last night,
the sun rises on a dry winter day,
warm air, clear sky.
I see Bitter Ridge for the first time

in weeks, a feeding flock scampers
through branches, squabbles
over the best perch, fruit trees
risk flowering into the face

of a blizzard. Next morning the weather
turns back, cold and wet,
blowing snow holds the pass,
there’s avalanche risk, eastern traffic

can’t get through, in the river bottoms
the wind and rain last all day.
Standing in the kitchen
with my tea I remember

what I should have done
that one clear day,
this day feels intestinal.

Useless Days

for Totally Optional Prompts

Pewter clouds shroud the meadow,
summer days leave like a scarecrow
in a wind storm, their memories fade
as they walk into the foggery,

and winter sneaks in from behind,
pulling a sled of bitter misery.
It's been raining for days, the weather-lady
in her designer suit enjoys

showing us the swirling-cloud pictures
and telling us it's going to continue
through the weekend. Rain drumming
the roof finds a puddle and a bucket

in the yard under the plum tree
where it can tap out an ancient refrain.
I think on these useless days
and the dismal swamp they've become,

and then the rowdy jays
come in to squabble over peanuts.

The Water North of Hard

for Writers Island

Eighteen miles across the scab rock
desert north of Hard, population
none, three cottonwoods guard
a wooden horse trough and a patch
of marsh grass. An old bottle rests

between two boards on the trough,
bottom up so the alkali dust
settles on the outside. A trickle
of clear water seeps through the green
mud on the horse trough's floor, spreads

through the animal tracks, the large ones first,
coyote and pronghorn, then sage grouse,
wood rat, marsh wren and fence lizard.
What moisture is left soaks into the ground,
or evaporates, leaving a white crust.

The old bottle, mouth turned to the ground,
says the water here is good.

High Fog

Skittering shorebirds probe
a generous mud flat,
fog and tide slip in
from the west and push

high until the flat is covered.
Birds trill and whistle,
and fly off to find an open bar,
plover perch on rotted pilings,

dunlin use a vacant runway.
Shorebirds return when the tide
recedes to the west.
The indifferent fog lifts,

waits for more fog, dissipates
and comes back not at all.

The Woman with a Broken Down SUV at the Paria River

for Totally Optional Prompts

I'm not able to repair the leak
so I offer M&Ms, you say
you have chips. If this was a movie
I'd open a bottle of wine, we'd sit

on the rear bumper and talk
about the desert sun filtering
through the dusty cottonwoods.
But you need a tow into town.

You don't need to know how much
I love your dark hair trimmed close,
your white-pants outfit. You need
to find a dimly lit restaurant

while I watch the sun go down
in the muddy river.

Tokeland

for Writers Island

At the hotel the dog is always the same,
it's the people who are different, and the coffee
is different, and the waitress calling me hon'.

In the harbor the sunrise is always the same,
it's the fog hanging in the trees
that's different, and the tide, flood then ebb

then flood, and the boats, listing, leaving,
getting ready. On the breakwater the rocks
are always the same, it’s the crabbers

standing on the pier who are different,
and the coffee, and the dog
watching godwits on the beach sleep

with one eye open. In Tokeland the fog
is always the same, what's different
is how close it gets to the hotel at night.

Simple Ku

for one deep breath

a sip of wine
slides down
the lip of a glass

~

an autumn garden
of scraggly stalks
and quiet mizzle

~

fall dawn at Jane's lake
and no boss
for three days

~

at the Hines sewage pond
a phalarope spins and picks
and spins and picks
and spins

~

at Silver Lake
a plume of alkali dust
spins through the sage

~

in a twilight breeze
the nervous grass
dances a tango

Old Lover

I saw my old lover again.

It’s been a while since
she taught me that
even on the coldest nights
planets revolve and rotate
through a crowded space
and comets still expect
to journey this way again
swinging their tails around.

I learned that birds
have wings to migrate
past the horizon
where last-year shadows are big
with expectation
and the todays are long.

I learned that summer nights
are a steaming brewery
of column clouds
scattering the clattering hail,
of sizzling rain
with a crackling edge,
of towering tornadoes
swinging their tails around.

I saw my old lover again.

Late Autumn

I know the marshland
below my hermitage
the way I know the tavern
at the end of the street.

Wrens glean brown tules,
roots deep in black water,
crows perch on branches
long free of blossoms.

Broom

Late winter mizzle dribbles
from bare branches over the back
fence. The moon sweeps the River-
of-Stars to a small pile in the west,

whisk, whisk, whisk, the sun
rises to a clear sky.
A few twitters wait on a branch,
a morning breeze stirs the feeder-

spill on the deck, whisk, whisk.
Standing on the path I watch the twitters
pick at the feeder-spill, from behind
I hear whisk, whisk.