East Washington, Late Winter
The sky is a web of cirrus,
ice prisms flank the setting sun.
It’s raining by now in Seattle,
but here, in east Washington,
the wind is warm and dry,
long furrows of incubating wheat
converge on the Horse Heaven Hills.
Crest and dip, the undulating road.
Something Like an Invisible Bird
(Picton, New Zealand, February 1977)
Something like an invisible bird
has flown between them,
its cry a desolate sound
heard faintly as if drifting
across wide waters.
They cannot look at each other,
so stare at the ferry moored
below them, on the wharf.
There, a man runs and waves
to his family already on board,
children jostle for a place in line.
Around them, sparkling blues
of Queen Charlotte Sound
and subtle greens
of Marlborough hills
are fading into dusk.
But something like an invisible bird
has flown between them,
and neither can say what it was.
It has made them strangers
on this island far from home.