Belt

We saw Pisa but you'll never see Venice.

There is a photo in front of me now--

you in my arms, Libby at my side--three

of us leaning, making the tower right.

That's one thing my therapist would say:

You feel guilty. I’d disagree, but he kept

coming back to it. I’d say I’m hard on myself,

a perfectionist. Take tennis I'd say,

I focus on the work not on winning.

Between half my age and hip the men are

who tuck their shirts these days into jeans.

I rescued a few button downs worn more

than a decade ago at the office

and in business class lounges far away

from home. Far away from you and Libby.

I committed to Hilary I’d wear them

in Venice--not just sackcloth and flannels.

It wasn’t just the sorting and packing

and the move; it was soccer again.

I replaced the belt. The one with a steel

tip and buckle, disintegrating as we speak

by sweat, and bending and sawing and tearing

autumn olive out of the ground. I will

have a stove at the cabin with a fire

you'll never feed. I want to feel less bad.

Guilt is flowering on barren ground.

The lake wants to still
and reflect the blue sky.

Why does the sky breathe
and disturb it so much?

high in the sky

smoke from the great fires
far south of here

yellows the light

look in the shadows

low between the firs
the dark places against which
you see sunlight

catch the faint rain

Rising

Above the treetops

two hawks

or maybe falcons

fly south with purpose

straight into the setting winter sun.

They join the others

become crows

their black breasts lit gold.

Lost Word

A rustle in the canopy too muffled for a squirrel.
I find red in my binoculars. A crest.
A pileated woodpecker resolves from the green silence.
A black mask pulled across her eyes and cheeks
makes her bill appear even longer.

Pileated is not a metaphor;
pileum is a synonym for cap.

A whisper.
Her mate settles on a nearby branch.
A red stripe extends a Joker’s open gash.
They don’t migrate. Year round
they stay and stay together.

Quieter still.
In the woods beyond, leaves.

Flight Call

A still day in early August.
I’m cool in the shade of an old maple
on a good bench to sit for birds.

Chickadees are chatting
but they can’t hold my interest.
Spring is over. All the singing

for territory, for a mate, for your brood

is done, but I don’t want to leave.

Nowhere will ease the anniversary.

A careening train of boys on bikes
comes skidding down the path.
A junco bolts.

The boys are breaking rules
but they easily avoid hitting me

and go on as if I'm not here.

If they were a year or two older,
I’m sure I would have felt again
that familiar fever spike of fury.

I wait the minutes for the birds to calm
and try to recall which have a flight call.
I missed Jack's.

I am still angry a week later.
Just ask her who lives with me
how I endure without his song.

Even as I lift my Face to Rain

No matter how hard

I try to convince myself

that beyond that spot of water

is the Orient way west

past Hurricane Ridge

across the rolling Pacific.

That bit of water

I see down the gloomy street

under the gloomy sky

is the lake not the sound

teeming with salmon.