Occasional Chaos

In Jenner

The Russian River splays in front of me
opening its mouth wide to the sea
the youthful harmony of its currents
collapsing into dying eddies.

Ocean whitecaps break to my right
against the rocky shoals.
It’s high tide, and some escape
to push upstream into the river’s maw.

Squadrons of white pelicans descend
to glide just inches above the
river’s rippled surface
wide wings flirting with the water.

They dominate the river’s surface
ceding only to nimbler terns
energetically flapping their wings
in practiced evasive maneuvers. 

I hear a dozen different birds
calling from the tree-lined banks,
chirps, kir-kur-kus, squeaky whistles,
but none are familiar like the squeals of the gulls.

The skies have been overcast for days now,
a grey mist obscuring the rocky outcrops,
faint horizon marked only by shading
as the slate-dark sea meets a graphite sky.

The hawks feign disinterest, floating high
above my Adirondack chair
made even more uncomfortable
by the gusting Pacific winds.

I think it’s time for a second coffee
and perhaps a piece of pie.

On Badger’s Island

Skiffs plied the river
that traces the contours of Badger’s Island
a stone’s throw from the clapboard house
you called home.

We watched from your makeshift dock
as they darted in slow motion,
noisy water skeeters with
important errands to run.

Then dusk crept in like a fog
to mute the russet hills,
the lights from across the river
awakening to dot the water’s edge.

The air cooled quickly
and you offered me whiskey
seductive refuge
tasting of peat and sea.

Breezes thinned the clouds,
baring the moon to hum silver and blue
across your watery eyes
as you leaned closer.

Underestimating your magic
you pressed up against me
reducing the skies
to the spark of your touch.

I followed you up the narrow staircase
landing at your bed
our bodies cold and drunk
gracelessly spilling together.

We were too soon spent,
salt heavy on my lips,
musk spinning the room
as regret thickened my head.

Nature’s providence brought
a cold morning rain
snuffing the last dying embers
of love that ran out of time.

Tea for Two

The teacups are short and chubby-looking
painted with cragged branches and red blossoms
reminding me of Russian matryoshka.

You know, the happy-faced dolls
that nest, larger hiding smaller
and so on, until the baby appears.

No, nesting won’t do here
for who would get the larger cup? 
Instead, these stack neatly

with one lid for the top
to keep the dust and bugs out.
One day I’ll take them off the shelf

and make two cups of tea
maybe set out a plate of cookies
to sip and eat by the window

even though the friend
who gave me the teacups
doesn’t live here anymore.

Where We Live

The apartment sits in the middle of a quiet city street.
There’s a wide sidewalk, a wrought-iron gate,
arborvitae, and lush purple succulents.

At the end of the street, behind the park,
the woods cover the hills;
and if you turn north you’ll see

the protected dunes of Crissy Beach.
It used to be marsh and wetlands
that no longer exist. 

Tomorrow early, we will walk down
and visit the seagulls,
but today we’re staying home,

sitting at the window, then the desk,
or putting on a sweater
to go for a short walk

or kneeling on the sofa
watching the people full of purpose
under the darkening sky.

This is the first blustery day
since we lost her mother,
and even though she was comfortable,

we are amazed at how the wind
howls through the leaky windows
cold as usual,

blowing,
as it always does
in through the Golden Gate.

Old growth

I sat near the footpath of rust and earth.
To the left, a steep bank of ferns
reach out in unison as if longing
to brush your arm.

Swollen redwoods climb high
branchless towers stretching 
for the light they’ll hoard
before it can reach the forest floor.

Ahead, a log bridge crosses a creek
hidden by underbrush
(Am I assuming too much?
There’s no sound of water.)

Across the bridge flit strips
of sunlight - they made it! -
promising earthy aromas of
warm peat and drying moss.

A lone woman breaks my trance
too-smartly dressed in navy blue,
strawberry hair curling loosely
at the nape of her neck.

I dare not follow, 
so settle again into my recess 
where I’ll bide the afternoon
on the chance she may return.

In The Time Of The Virus

The early northern Spring,
once faithful with rhythmic promise,
carried silent warnings of
an invisible predator
we could not recognize.

Grief and fear encircled the world
in crestless waves of death,
the follies of fools
serving the intruder
unwitting new acolytes.

We came together as brothers and sisters,
innocent dreamers of tomorrow
taking refuge in solitude,
listening in unfamiliar quiet
for the whispered promise of salvation.

Then the light of all our hearts,
opening in earnest appeal,
spilled upwards into the sky
to reveal a world transformed
we could not have imagined.