Alluvial Fan
The cold blew in counterclockwise,
snow in the passes, April leaning hard
against the sill. In the lowlands it just rained
clear rain, dousing the cherry, filling the tulips
with shine. They turned off the dialysis machine
and the cold descended quickly,
in the quiet of the morning one met one
coming through mist like a far off locomotive
all headlight blur and speed shaking the blossoms
to the ground. It would be thunder in another
language, it would be time to start this journey
across the continent on foot. The cold descended
from the passes into the boot soles of the traveler.
His voice went out to greet those in the thaw.
—April 2019
Homage
First I spot the jay.
Flashing like that impossible deep
blue staring into outer space
there it is—Steller’s jay
photobombing the flowerbed,
poking for loose seed
or some grub shivering
in the upturned muck—
stratospheric the bright-
dark wings, almost orbital
the peaked crest
chiseled out of dusk.
In spring there is this opening in the weather
only a jay can fill—gray rain passing
eastward over the lakes, the pink
of cherry blossoms dripping, pacific daylight
crowding into every budding leaf—
one jay calling to another here here.
Wherever you call from
what answers
isn’t smoke alarm or childhood
or the book of revelation
though any jay can pierce the sky
with crying,
what answers is the quick wisp
of a bushtit alighting in the vine maple
followed by another
and another,
a swarm of chittering bushtits
filling the maple with the dignity
of numbers, a collective noun
widening into pure responsibility.
For a minute I watch them
take turns chastising the jay’s
on-again off-again
gravedigger demeanor
then move on
one at a time—touch and go—
arrow splitting
the infinitive’s need.