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The Hawk at the Clearing
The pines are holding in their breath; the mist still kneels in silver rows. He keeps the morning folded close, one dark, unhurried, listening rose. The cere is gold, a small exact sun set over law the first wind wrote. Each feather laid like shield on shield, a living psalm the forest wrote. No sermon…
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The Quiet Spit
The harbor wears its Sunday blue, A bowl of light the wind runs through, And every little silver crease Goes walking by, then finds its peace. A green head rises, spruce-crowned, slow, From rock the color of old snow Turned granite-gray with lichen script, A psalm the centuries have lipped. The trees lean out like…
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Low Tide at Dusk
The tide has drawn its long gray hem awayAnd left the flats in glistening disarray,A field of stone and kelp, of tidal glass,Where minnows in the shallow rivers pass.The sun has slipped behind the wooded ridge;Its embers linger, molten at the edge,And spill in copper down the polished bayTo gild the ribs of sand where…