Inland

Gulls circle above my living room window
in and out of low smoky clouds
lording over crows huddled in firs.
Snow is coming. In some places it's here already.
The birds know this as well as I. A pair

of gulls drops toward a roof across the street.

One gull lands but the other touches and must go.

I am not a gull but I think the visual cues failed him.

The distances are shorter here away from the water.

He tries again but concludes he is too big.

The crows express their wild delight. The gulls come

for shelter. There is food here. Peanuts, for example,

unsalted, unroasted, unshelled. The way crows like.

Redmond Watershed Preserve

It is hard to see the mountain for the forest. This time
of year it is easier. After an early snow blackberries
and wild roses lay flattened. The storm shook loose
all but a few maple and alder leaves and revealed
ravines that brooks trace between hillsides of cedar
and Douglas Fir, salal and ferns. It is clear to me now,
after years walking here, how this watershed tilts rain

and snow toward the sea. I listen for the sound one leaf
makes when it strikes another, or when another buckles
under a sparrow's weight. If I listen long enough

I hear the song the frost sings, the ravine sings, and 

where salmon end their run.

Pacific Wren

A noisy brown ping pong ball jumped
up from the trail and velcroed itself
to the trunk of a Douglas Fir. It cocked

its head to best keep an eye on me.
One earlier lay still on the path.
The scavengers hadn't found it yet.

I didn't kneel and use forceps as some
do to examine its final meal. It lay on
a trail--why not suspect the trail?

Generally wrens stay near the ground where
the food is. Where a sword fern scares
the hawk away. When I play the wren’s

song, sometimes it comes. The song
of rubber tires speeding through gravel
isn’t food is it? It’s not a mate singing.

One horse rider attached a jingly bell
to her horse’s halter because on this
trail once they came upon a bear.

I looked up to the crow
on the power line.
There's dignity in silence
we thought.

Previously, me and crows.

We don’t stop aging in winter

In the morning shower when my brain
is clean and fresh, I divert the tumble
of my thoughts away from Jack the night
my father died. This memory is warm
but the next? How dark and cold, and
how slippery might it be? I leave it
lodged where ground slides into fog
this dark compressed day of winter
and lift my shoulders from their crouch.

Night after night, practicing this skill,
gradually gave me back my sleep.
It isn’t looking at the world through
rose colored glasses. It isn’t looking.

The Jay Calls

Birds erupt outside my hotel window.
Cardinal, wren, robin.
Yack Yack Yack. All aflutter.

Is it about to rain or has Jack returned from nowhere?

He used to stay in the canopy riding the waves
wind and currents presented him,
but the leaves are still against the sky.

Was there ever anything more beautiful
than his sea soaked eyelashes when he tired
and came back dripping to his towel?

The jay calls.

So thirsty he was. Still I can’t look to see his face.

Settled

Jack's tombstone wears the oak's mantel:

lichens rust the pink granite; tannins set

his name and the chiseled teak pattern

in relief. His view is good. The trees cast

long stark shadows down the green slope.

A jogger in a red jacket makes his way

along the drive. I expect a blue jay to perch

atop the stone but they accept Jack's claim.

Together the robins and blue jays watch me

listen as the Gladstone passes this good spot.