Tease

Dawn rises bright and fresh, reaches
into the kitchen and wraps its warm
around my shoulders, light-shards smile
across the floor. But it's a tease,

this is February, icy fog
comes in the night, hides frost
in the garden, mornings are cold floors.
Fog yields to dark clouds and drizzle,

and wind drives chill through a sweater.
I want to believe the warm hug is
especially for me, that she's going to stay,
but warm is a fickle lover, she'll be gone

for months warming other shoulders,
icy will be back tonight
with sharp teeth.

Twinge

A cold dribble-and-drizzle morning
I prowl the kitchen for hot tea,
hot relief, any escape
from the ever present. A shelf sags

to the floor under a burden
of family-story, a 'Darwin' mug filled
to the brim with rancid finances,
a brass lamp with deep emotional tarnish,

a hand-crank kitchen clock heavy
with memory of Grandpa's difficult attitudes,
gossip on Aunt Karen and Uncle Mike,
old legal dodges and drunken conflicts.

At the estate sale, family-stories
that survived storms and earthquakes are not bid,
are separated, wiped away. I pick up 'Darwin'
and get a twinge in my elbow.

Empty Lot

Coming out of the desert at dusk,
like a shorebird migrating
to its winter range, I look
for a place to eat. East of Merrill

on old thirty-nine is an eatery
with an 'Open' sign.
Lights are on but the lot is empty,
no customers in the window.

Does a shorebird pass up an empty mudflat?
I think on the possibilities, a British menu,
Manhattan prices, evangelical service,
a peregrine in the trees. I pass it up

and head across the bay to a mudflat
with a flock of thousands.

Fish

Fishermen survive month at sea in ice box. Vancouver Sun headline.

The early fish are fishers
harvesting brother fish
in the ancient sea.
Early fishers leave

the ancient sea,
learn to breathe the air,
and walk the land,
learn to build spears,

harpoons, nets, hooks
and royal coachman flies.
The early fishers
go back to the sea in ships

with their spears,
nets, and hooks
to harvest their brothers
in ever increasing numbers

and put them in salt,
on ice and on the grill,
and the ancient sea
puts the fishers on ice.

Waiting for a Knock

Under gray-coat weather I wake
to a woodpecker knocking
on my cabin's eastern wall.
With a mug of hot tea I sit down

with the radio-lady and think on winding
the clock. I want the ditch-water day
to go away but it insists on hauling
garbage, running the train through town,

delivering the mail, barking the dog,
running the train back the other way.
I wind the clock, pour a glass of wine
and get in touch with my inner fence post.

The fog goes dark and I sit down
with the radio-lady and wait
for the woodpecker to start knocking
on my cabin's eastern wall.