Egret Playing Angel

In last night's dream, a small boy kept saying: the three cliffs in Dover, the three cliffs in Dover! In his bright green shirt he laughs, turns away and disappears in a mist. This and other messages given, but intended for whom?

Another day of dark rain as California burns.

It's cold enough to see my breath in the mornings. The world is different. Don't pretend it's better, because it's not. Sure, the highs and lows have given way to a flatline. But I have already lived decades underneath that arrow of stone. When I lived in Kenya, every day was fully on fire. It was either terrifying or utterly and deliriously beautiful. Living that way did take it's toll but only because I never knew if I was going to live or die that day. It's not like that here.

No, it's nothing like that here.

egret
playing angel
and two herons
on the rise –
at least feathers remain

The pond shimmers a little after dawn's fade. Yellow “nodding beggarticks” bob along the shoreline, hiding the egret's quest for breakfast. There is a peacefulness; is that what you've received? If that's what I can give then I relent. And is this what it is about? Relenting? I still burn. Perhaps I always will. Living with fire is thing. It's my thing.

Maple leaves ignite. Woodsmoke at night smudges a wall of safety around my dreams. These are hints I imagined under sleeping bags and stars and fading night noises. Oh well; that's not how any of this works. Now the wind is our conversation; the coming winter is our bed.

Crows line the library roof. I check out books on cheetahs and egrets and matatus. Poetry books for children and short stories in Spanish. Old men in farmer's overalls limp out their son's Oldsmobiles. A handkerchief in the pocket. An old cap worn threadbare in some places. Fish out of water. Just trying to breathe.

And me too.