somewhere i can see

the gaping mouth of the dead possum
with its guts splayed out
around its body and lots of
flies swarming around the eyes, and i
can’t help but quickly look away as soon as i see it,
and then look back, this time for longer
staring at the mouth and tongue
as i pedal around the guts and feet
and curled up
tail

sitting in my room staring at the computer screen when i notice that the sunlight is fading outside and i propel myself down the stairs and out
the door to get to somewhere i can see the moon

watching the glowing orb of light grow
behind the tree line,
feeling the coolness of the night land
on polyester sweater
and thick denim
jean

lying on my back (on the ground) (in the garden) facing the sky
darkening (with the night),
and lightening, with the moon,
as i wait for it to
rise
seeing wisps of cloud
cirrus (named in latin for a strand, curl, lock, of hair)
wondering how almosts stop being almosts. like in the case, of ,
how does an almost become a
full
(moon)

feeling sure how there is something in the knowing that soon it will be empty again

clunks gently

when there is a sudden downpour as i’m riding back from town
and i pass a man who is also riding
his bicycle, who gives me a thumbs up through the rain and calls out to me,
we’ve got two hurricanes headed our way

when the rain clears and the sky lights up orange and lavender and i shake off some of the dripping, and stop by c’s new house for a moment to check
in on the painting progress and give him a hug with my helmet on so it clunks
gently into his chin

 

the water shines

watching the steam rise from three mugs of tea on the kitchen counter in the morning of a workday but i am on vacation

peach juice dribbles down my chin near where webber road enters
historic whately and my fingers are sticky so i wipe them on my
shirt before grabbing the handlebars again and srs says this is what i want when i retire and at first i think she means running a peach farm and setting up a stand like the one we’ve come across, which seems like a lot of work for retirement
but then i realize she means biking over back roads in the hills with friends stopping along the way to eat peaches

the way the water shines on the rocks above the dam
glimmering in afternoon light
and i slide into it and submerge myself (just a little bit colder than i would prefer)

past all of the corn

when there is an extra burst of light in the noticeably dark restaurant,
once
and then twice,
just for a few seconds at a time,
coming from somewhere i can not place
and i ask my companions
what is that light?
and h says
the back door, at the same time that p says
the heavens opening up
and we all laugh

the hugeness of the red pink gold blue sky cradling me as I pedal home past all of the corn, and upon entering the wooded path the light fades so much so that the fireflies become the
flashing bike lights
of the fairies

place to start

stepping into the darkening woods from where I had just been collecting
handfuls of black-capped raspberries and wide open sky,
greeted by a hundred points of scattered
light flickering over the ferns and in between tree trunks.

a lightning bug spectacular.

what if this could be our way of celebrating july 4th instead of those booming light shows of independence?

straddling our bicycles
at the crosswalk of the traffic circle (roundabout) (rotary)
holding a lost (and now found) phone in our hands,
accessing the contacts list without a passcode,
and talking about the pros and cons of whether recent calls or favorites
would be a better place to start searching for the owner.

i wouldn’t want someone calling my most recent calls at 10:30pm on a monday night i say to r, so we go to favorites and we call
wade.

i brought some home

into my groundlessness when I bought a chicken,
bulb of lemongrass,
three carrots,
celery, and an
onion, to cook up a broth to lift up any road-weary bones.

sipping on sunshine.

Then I borrowed a bicycle,
panniers,
a stove,
a map, and an
extra pair of socks, and rode across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County.

Two nights in the redwoods,
one swim in the ocean,
can of sardines,
two avocadoes and a package of rye bread
a turmeric stained spoon and too much
couscous.

I turned off my phone when it was almost dark, and listened to the ways the sounds changed as the light faded. I yawned. I was so tired
of street lights and
crowded subway cars and the way my
shoes sounded when I walked fast on the concrete and too many
text messages.

I meandered along the river, and watched the stars peek out through the tree canopy. Then I wiggled into my sleeping bag, sinking into the bed of pine needles and leaf litter, and wrote letters to you

and you
and you
and you

and drew a picture of my tent nested in the trees. I yawned.

It was so hard to rest in the city. It was so hard to sleep with the fluorescent bulbs streaming through the windows. The loud voices. The running. I told myself to soak up the redwood wisdom and engrain the stillness of the trees into my skin. open up my pores.

you can bring this anywhere!

I brought some home.

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