Lines from a Gum Tree Grove, Page 2

sparrows went, I said. They left

  no crumbs. Later, clearing the walk,

  I found them where the snow had blown

  over them in the night. They shook

  their wings and flew toward the sun.

  Two Gulls

  Two gulls perched on a driftwood stump

  watch the seaward sky, and we,

  wet with rain and the ocean damp,

  watch the brown sand pipers rake

  the beach for the leavings of the sea.

  One gull, out for a noontime walk,

  important as a law-fat judge,

  scatters the pipers who block his way

  with one judicial-sounding squawk

  that turns to comic scream when the edge

  of one wave wets his feet with spray.

  We laugh. The birds are startled. The gull,

  his dignity in disarray,

  turns away and pecks a shell.

  Surf

  Surf gnaws the sand wedged in the cliff.

  Two gulls squabble for scraps of fish.

  Wind tangles your hair. We watch waves chafe

  the offshore rocks. We look for seals;

  we hear them bark in the ocean splash.

  You point to a seal diving where swells

  cross foaming. I kiss your forehead, not

  my usual target, and you frown,

  mocking irritation. The gulls

  quibble landward. We laugh at their spat,

  and turn to follow where they've flown,

  wishing them a happy new year.

  We do not speak of what might run

  under the surfaces things wear.

  Squid Boats

  Squid boats set seaward from Monterey

  trailing a line of moon-bleached gulls.

  Along the shore the sea weeds sway

  in the surf. I watch you talk with friends

  while I toss pebbles in the swells

  washing the litter over the sands.

  It is not long ago we walked

  on sun-cracked mud at the reservoir,

  joined trembling hand in awkward hand,

  afraid our lives would intersect

  a moment, then part to meet no more.

  Now all the wonder of our time

  together, like the tide along this shore,

  ebbs from my heart into this rhyme.

  The Sails

  The sails on San Francisco Bay

  are feathers from the Cosmic Hen

  she took in her beak and plucked away,

  I tell you, to ease her Cosmic Itch.

  Whether the sails are works of man,

  you say, or feathers the Hen has scratched

  is no matter to trouble us.

  Things as they are, are beautiful.

  I, silenced by your logic, watch

  the sailboats dodge the wind and chase

  the whitecaps. You say, Observe that gull.

  He has no thought of Cosmic Things.

  He's happy with an orange peel

  and the feel of the wind under his wings.

  We Watch the Swallows

  We watch the swallows rise and swoop

  catching moths in the neighbor's fields.

  We drink brown tea from white-rimmed cups

  and talk a bit of philosophy

  as lights turn on across hill

  beyond the fences. Up from the sea

  the gray fog creeps, plucking the stars

  with cold fingers from cobalt skies.

  You leave your chair and come to me,

  and we make love before the fire.

  Outside a hunting owl's low cries

  keep rhythm with our love. We come

  to gentle climax. You close your eyes.

  I watch the shadows fill the room.

  Invasion

  We heard terror in the chicken pen.

  We grabbed our robes and ran to save

  the frightened birds. We lost two hens

  the rooster, and a foot of chicken wire.

  The raccoon ran to hide in the grove.

  It will come back, you said. It tore

  the pen apart. Feathers and blood,

  I said, will draw the buzzards, too.

  Surviving hens huddled in terror.

  I mended the fence. You buried the dead.

  We finished as the day broke through

  the eastern eucalyptus. Damn the fiend,

  I said. I don't feel safe. You replied,

  Some monster gets us all, in the end.

  The Turquoise Frog

  You hold the turquoise frog you find

  among the plants that share our house

  on the flat palm of your open hand

  and inquire of him which thing he prefers:

  to stay a safe guest, or, set loose,

  to hazard cats under the stairs.

  By some alchemy of thought

  you know his choice is liberty

  despite vicissitude. Outdoors,

  you tell him, be careful of the cats.

  Come sometimes to visit me.

  You say to me, His froghood says spawn

  his kind, and here there is no she.

  He'll be unhappy if he's alone.

  The Witch

  We hear the witch calling her hogs

  under a yellow November moon.

  Her piggy-piggy wakes the dogs

  and interrupts our moonlight talk

  with the cows. We wait 'til she is done

  before continuing our walk.

  We wake the sheep. One has a bell

  that stirs the dogs again. She's sad,

  you say, to be so old a wreck

  who once was young and beautiful.

  I call her witch; you shake your head.

  I'm not so sure; she's just insane.

  It's thirty years since her man died,

  and that's so long to live alone.

  The Frost

  Frost killed some pepper plants last night,

  you say. Their leaves are black and limp.

  I say, The moon and stars were bright.

  It was a night for making love.

  The owl, you say, complained of damp

  and cold. I heard him whine and grieve

  for his arthritic wings. I heard

  him too. I thought he'd missed a mouse.

  He did. The mouse was glad to live

  a little longer, but the bird

  was mortified that he had missed

  an easy kill. The peppers froze?

  Yes. I think this spring's the last.

  Last what? Last spring the old owl has.

  Night Disturbance

  I switched off your reading light

  and said, Put down your book, my love.

  The old moon's thin as a paring cut

  from a geisha's lacquered nail.

  Exotic creatures cavort in the grove,

  and I think I heard a griffin growl.

  You had a page or two to read,

  but went out with me, hand in hand.

  The stars had melted in a pool

  of ashen gray. Some magic, I said,

  has changed the world. It's fog the wind

  has blown in from the sea, no more.

  It's dragon smoke, or the breath of a fiend.

  I held you close and stroked your hair.

  Champagne Dragons

  Two bubbly dragons in my champagne

  flipped their tails and tickled my nose.

  I put my glass aside just then

  to sneeze and missed the toast we made

  to you, although I saved my clothes.

  The dragons, unconcerned and rude,

  went on swimming in my glass

  as though it were their private pool.

  Our company was undismayed

  that I had sneezed and let it pass.

  I raised
my glass and turned to tell

  the reason I missed your toast. You saw

  the dragons flash a champagne smile,

  salute you, and effervesce away.

  The Temblor

  Ghost songs play on the harpsichord;

  a passing temblor strums the strings

  and tumbles chessmen from their board

  to roll across the tiles on the floor.

  The cicadas have stilled their songs.

  I hold my breath, waiting for more

  uneasy tremors in the earth.

  I grip my chair to keep my place.

  You see the terror in my stare.

  It's a little shake, not worth

  your worry, you say. You touch my face

  with tender fingers. Help me get

  the men picked up. We can't play chess

  with wandering rooks or missing knights.

  Rain

  Rain rattles the roof; the fire is low.

  I lie beside you listening

  to your breathing's come and go.

  You are sleeping, spent with love,

  not hearing the rain hammering

  water nails in the shingles. I move

  to watch the firelight on your hair.

  You stir and smile. I stroke your arm

  and pull your blanket up. I leave

  to make a cup of tea and hear

  you sigh as though dreams come to charm

  and consummate your sleep. The rain

  beats on the roof. Your back is warm

  when I get into bed again.

  I Talk of Swans

  I talk of swans on silver rivers.

  You catch my mood and sing for me

  of dappled dolphins who were lovers

  parted by a school of whales

  one summer in a purple sea.

  I tell you how snails build their shells

  with help from oyster engineers,

  and you tell me how lizards use

  spider webs to make new tails

  and horsehair worms to clean their ears.

  Then I recite the list of clues

  that prove an elf is in our house.

  You tell me what leathers dwarves will choose

  to bridle and saddle a riding mouse.

  We Wake the Buzzards

  We wake the buzzards with our talk

  as we walk the lane along the grove.

  Some, nightmare-raddled, croak and wake.

  They shake their dank wings, and shower

  fog from the moon-forsaken leaves

  on our heads. We laugh and run, and stir

  the neighbor dogs from dreams of game

  running before the hunter hounds

  of canine hero tales. We hear

  the moon sigh for her shattered calm

  as dog tells dog the fearful sounds

  that broke sweet sleep's security.

  We stop to kiss where the pathway bends

  as the moon restores serenity.

  The Frog Dream

  You dream a frog had driven the bus.

  It was strange, you say. All green

  and blue he was, and lectured us

  on human destructiveness. The pools

  were poisoned by us; he'd never seen

  so many tadpoles die. The scales

  of justice found us wanting, he said.

  You shake yourself awake. He wore

  a