Gone West, Young Man, More Points of da Compass

Compass

Yellow jackets seethe in and out of nests under the deck. Shade and sun, this moment, confuses the red fence. Overturned canoe, solid taste returning. Who scribes the arc terminates.

Compass

Pieces of heaven, running stream as property boundary, bubble of sound easy wall to bear,

Mt.

Hood

, edges softened by snow. Three dogs, two St. Bernards and a rotweiler, unleashed, foam and rail after her German short hair. Up ahead, stop sign marks his turn around, then laughing glide down hill. Cracker box cottages of harvest workers, slumping shoulder to shoulder, hell perhaps if they hate the picking, the small weight of wages in aching hands.

Compass

Ladders and legs, cherry harvest, ladders and legs. Wet from surf, chasing waves, fleeing, she warms up with sand angels. Headlands, sand, smooth surface of bay, fog, converge. Three undaunted arches, uncountable, inexorable fragile waves.

Compass

Sea or sand, which terminates which? Sound of thin falls overwhelmed by pounding surf, yet, when you can pick it out, its more musical. We walk the beaches of our lives, heading south, heads down, sifting sand for agates, sand dollars, iridescent chips of clam shells. Once in awhile we look to the horizon, shrouded in fog or, air clear, our most defined line.

Compass

In her busy hands, the envelope didn’t stand a chance. Setting, sun drains color. Shade’s in the thermometer. Chopped back by a boy’s furious, mindless swordplay, now reborn, pink rose’s slow glow.