Only a Few

 

Only a few words

a few voices, low trills

a flock of tiny birds

a jay's single loud caw

otherwise empty

of sounds

I sit

on the snowbank

only a few

minutes

more.

 

 

 

Hong Kong, 6 AM

 

Suddenly quiet. For a moment

no traffic, no horns

echoing up the steep hills and tall

buildings, the cars like toys down

the sheer concrete chasms, first one

starts, honking impatiently

instantly the others join like geese

in a frantic chorus of disapproval.

But now the streets are empty, benign

muffling fog coats the peak

skyscrapers still unlit, an old

bent woman pushes a hand cart

of fresh noodles up the street

to her sidewalk post at the alley

for breakfast, a breeze rustles

lightly, lone siren wails and passes

morning feels cool a little longer.

 

 

 

 

Time to Go Home

 

Lakes like liquid mercury poured

Out in the hollows of the land

Shine flat from the mountain side

Reflect in fractured mosaic the peaks.

Soon the land becomes shades of black

The paintbrush still red in the swerving

Headlights. It is time to go home.

 

 

 

A Moment at Dusk

 

There is a moment at dusk

when the breath of the sky

becomes visible as pink

coral clouds glowing

momentarily where before

there were none—

or merely white puffs

and just as suddenly

they fade again to colorless

pale night

 

but for that moment

the ending day shines

and the coming dark

like a processional marches

brighter than even the moon.

The eventual stars

will remember that exhaling

of light and shed it

back to us in fractured

bits of glass

 

the crickets will repeat

for us the pulse

of our glowing eyes

when we gathered those brief

pink and orange rays

but failed to hold them

beyond what they allow us—

our puny arms not equal to

the holding of the world

as dusk expires.

 

 

Deer in the Orchard

 

Before the sun sets, still warm

in the pioneer meadow

the deer come to feed

under the old apple trees

spilling green globes

in the tall grass

 

they nose for the split fruit

and climb the trunks

with their forefeet

for still-hanging ones,

then stand chewing

the crisp flesh

 

as the wild turkeys' chicks

search among the weeds

for insects and bits,

the air still as us

hushed watchers,

yellow orchard holding

the flock.