Poetry

Crow Sewing

White caps waltz;
High tide retreats
From bay of sand
On stormy beach.
Crows gather
For their feast.
Snails and mussels,
Limpets, crabs,
Snarled in mats
Of bull kelp stranded.
Clever crows
Start dinner dancing
Pick shelled morsel
Fly straight up
Linger mid air,
Let it drop
Watch it closely
See it crack
Dive ‘ere others
Steal your snack.
Crows are bobbing
Up and down,
Rising, falling—
Needles sewing
Up the storm.




New Calendar

All the days ahead,
Spilled out in neat little rows.

Each one knows its place.
How compact and succinct!

The whole year staring up at me,
Each number peering expectantly
Like puppies in a pet shop,
Each hoping to be special.

It’s almost scandalous to see the future,
To know ahead of time
That, say, on October 12th
I’ll be up to my ears in Monday.

Which days will shake history?
Which will find me on the couch
With tea and cat and knitting yarn?
This calendar will not tell
Until I look back on it from the next one.