sparrows went, I said. They left
no crumbs. Later, clearing the walk,
I found them where the snow had blown
over them in the night. They shook
their wings and flew toward the sun.
Two Gulls
Two gulls perched on a driftwood stump
watch the seaward sky, and we,
wet with rain and the ocean damp,
watch the brown sand pipers rake
the beach for the leavings of the sea.
One gull, out for a noontime walk,
important as a law-fat judge,
scatters the pipers who block his way
with one judicial-sounding squawk
that turns to comic scream when the edge
of one wave wets his feet with spray.
We laugh. The birds are startled. The gull,
his dignity in disarray,
turns away and pecks a shell.
Surf
Surf gnaws the sand wedged in the cliff.
Two gulls squabble for scraps of fish.
Wind tangles your hair. We watch waves chafe
the offshore rocks. We look for seals;
we hear them bark in the ocean splash.
You point to a seal diving where swells
cross foaming. I kiss your forehead, not
my usual target, and you frown,
mocking irritation. The gulls
quibble landward. We laugh at their spat,
and turn to follow where they've flown,
wishing them a happy new year.
We do not speak of what might run
under the surfaces things wear.
Squid Boats
Squid boats set seaward from Monterey
trailing a line of moon-bleached gulls.
Along the shore the sea weeds sway
in the surf. I watch you talk with friends
while I toss pebbles in the swells
washing the litter over the sands.
It is not long ago we walked
on sun-cracked mud at the reservoir,
joined trembling hand in awkward hand,
afraid our lives would intersect
a moment, then part to meet no more.
Now all the wonder of our time
together, like the tide along this shore,
ebbs from my heart into this rhyme.
The Sails
The sails on San Francisco Bay
are feathers from the Cosmic Hen
she took in her beak and plucked away,
I tell you, to ease her Cosmic Itch.
Whether the sails are works of man,
you say, or feathers the Hen has scratched
is no matter to trouble us.
Things as they are, are beautiful.
I, silenced by your logic, watch
the sailboats dodge the wind and chase
the whitecaps. You say, Observe that gull.
He has no thought of Cosmic Things.
He's happy with an orange peel
and the feel of the wind under his wings.
We Watch the Swallows
We watch the swallows rise and swoop
catching moths in the neighbor's fields.
We drink brown tea from white-rimmed cups
and talk a bit of philosophy
as lights turn on across hill
beyond the fences. Up from the sea
the gray fog creeps, plucking the stars
with cold fingers from cobalt skies.
You leave your chair and come to me,
and we make love before the fire.
Outside a hunting owl's low cries
keep rhythm with our love. We come
to gentle climax. You close your eyes.
I watch the shadows fill the room.
Invasion
We heard terror in the chicken pen.
We grabbed our robes and ran to save
the frightened birds. We lost two hens
the rooster, and a foot of chicken wire.
The raccoon ran to hide in the grove.
It will come back, you said. It tore
the pen apart. Feathers and blood,
I said, will draw the buzzards, too.
Surviving hens huddled in terror.
I mended the fence. You buried the dead.
We finished as the day broke through
the eastern eucalyptus. Damn the fiend,
I said. I don't feel safe. You replied,
Some monster gets us all, in the end.
The Turquoise Frog
You hold the turquoise frog you find
among the plants that share our house
on the flat palm of your open hand
and inquire of him which thing he prefers:
to stay a safe guest, or, set loose,
to hazard cats under the stairs.
By some alchemy of thought
you know his choice is liberty
despite vicissitude. Outdoors,
you tell him, be careful of the cats.
Come sometimes to visit me.
You say to me, His froghood says spawn
his kind, and here there is no she.
He'll be unhappy if he's alone.
The Witch
We hear the witch calling her hogs
under a yellow November moon.
Her piggy-piggy wakes the dogs
and interrupts our moonlight talk
with the cows. We wait 'til she is done
before continuing our walk.
We wake the sheep. One has a bell
that stirs the dogs again. She's sad,
you say, to be so old a wreck
who once was young and beautiful.
I call her witch; you shake your head.
I'm not so sure; she's just insane.
It's thirty years since her man died,
and that's so long to live alone.
The Frost
Frost killed some pepper plants last night,
you say. Their leaves are black and limp.
I say, The moon and stars were bright.
It was a night for making love.
The owl, you say, complained of damp
and cold. I heard him whine and grieve
for his arthritic wings. I heard
him too. I thought he'd missed a mouse.
He did. The mouse was glad to live
a little longer, but the bird
was mortified that he had missed
an easy kill. The peppers froze?
Yes. I think this spring's the last.
Last what? Last spring the old owl has.
Night Disturbance
I switched off your reading light
and said, Put down your book, my love.
The old moon's thin as a paring cut
from a geisha's lacquered nail.
Exotic creatures cavort in the grove,
and I think I heard a griffin growl.
You had a page or two to read,
but went out with me, hand in hand.
The stars had melted in a pool
of ashen gray. Some magic, I said,
has changed the world. It's fog the wind
has blown in from the sea, no more.
It's dragon smoke, or the breath of a fiend.
I held you close and stroked your hair.
Champagne Dragons
Two bubbly dragons in my champagne
flipped their tails and tickled my nose.
I put my glass aside just then
to sneeze and missed the toast we made
to you, although I saved my clothes.
The dragons, unconcerned and rude,
went on swimming in my glass
as though it were their private pool.
Our company was undismayed
that I had sneezed and let it pass.
I raised
my glass and turned to tell
the reason I missed your toast. You saw
the dragons flash a champagne smile,
salute you, and effervesce away.
The Temblor
Ghost songs play on the harpsichord;
a passing temblor strums the strings
and tumbles chessmen from their board
to roll across the tiles on the floor.
The cicadas have stilled their songs.
I hold my breath, waiting for more
uneasy tremors in the earth.
I grip my chair to keep my place.
You see the terror in my stare.
It's a little shake, not worth
your worry, you say. You touch my face
with tender fingers. Help me get
the men picked up. We can't play chess
with wandering rooks or missing knights.
Rain
Rain rattles the roof; the fire is low.
I lie beside you listening
to your breathing's come and go.
You are sleeping, spent with love,
not hearing the rain hammering
water nails in the shingles. I move
to watch the firelight on your hair.
You stir and smile. I stroke your arm
and pull your blanket up. I leave
to make a cup of tea and hear
you sigh as though dreams come to charm
and consummate your sleep. The rain
beats on the roof. Your back is warm
when I get into bed again.
I Talk of Swans
I talk of swans on silver rivers.
You catch my mood and sing for me
of dappled dolphins who were lovers
parted by a school of whales
one summer in a purple sea.
I tell you how snails build their shells
with help from oyster engineers,
and you tell me how lizards use
spider webs to make new tails
and horsehair worms to clean their ears.
Then I recite the list of clues
that prove an elf is in our house.
You tell me what leathers dwarves will choose
to bridle and saddle a riding mouse.
We Wake the Buzzards
We wake the buzzards with our talk
as we walk the lane along the grove.
Some, nightmare-raddled, croak and wake.
They shake their dank wings, and shower
fog from the moon-forsaken leaves
on our heads. We laugh and run, and stir
the neighbor dogs from dreams of game
running before the hunter hounds
of canine hero tales. We hear
the moon sigh for her shattered calm
as dog tells dog the fearful sounds
that broke sweet sleep's security.
We stop to kiss where the pathway bends
as the moon restores serenity.
The Frog Dream
You dream a frog had driven the bus.
It was strange, you say. All green
and blue he was, and lectured us
on human destructiveness. The pools
were poisoned by us; he'd never seen
so many tadpoles die. The scales
of justice found us wanting, he said.
You shake yourself awake. He wore
a