Another poem from when I was in Oregon.
I'm wondering today if in the tops
of the Jeffrey pines the needles sheath
with ice in the cold air; the water
balanced first along their lengths
by the tall fog, then frozen as the
night proceeds. At mid morning they
drip with a sound of rain, as a raven
cries down the field.
I'm wondering if the brazen jays,
who dart and flutter in the brush
as I walk past, who chide each
other in the small apple tree,
have a place to go, warm and safe,
when the needles sheath with ice.
I'm wondering if the slim snakes,
who in the early fall streaked
through the drying grass, are sleeping
soundly in their rocky dens; perhaps
the sudden flicker of a tongue, shot
from a rapt and silent mouth of dream.
I'm wondering if the day will brighten,
if the sun will shake the heavy dew
from off the grass, if light will touch
the waiting mountains, penetrate a
silent wood that I have yet to see.