light winter rain ticks
through bay laurel. concealed,
i watch ducks
where does the bright
edge of this grey misted morning
enter the page?
the paper glows and
the black ink shimmers —
some duckweed still green
after the cold snap
clings to the bank of
the slough that drains to the bay.
too hazy to see the
other side.
it’s not a trick or conjecture
that we are real.
look around.
listen to that raven rattle his talk
somewhere above me and
the canopy.
This article appears in Ferndale Gothic.
Puts me right there, feeling and seeing a beautiful view…