Howling Dog Moon, he said. Tonight The bay will be full of Dog Sharks. During Harvest Moon, he further reflected, that’s The Salmon Moon, the time the Swimmers come home. On the evening Cal Ripken
Broke baseball’s and Lou Gehrig’s Consecutive games record, I picked bull rushes with John Joseph In knee-deep mud, mired in Young’s Bay —picked bull rushes Beside and under a freeway, Galloping along unsure Of its true destination —picked bull rushes as faces From autos leaned down and found me askance. God, The questions they asked. Only John knew his purpose: Bring reeds to Cedar Woman, the old Makah, Weaver of grass mats. The sky had molted lavender and gray, As if winter waited Lean and wizened on the flank, An army of gray, a jihad of gray. Howling Dog Moon, he said As a full moon Doused the landscape with glitter, Flouncing shards of light across Broken wave tops, jittering Like Monet brushstrokes. Late that night I woke to silence. The vanilla moon was full. I caught the face And wondered, salmon or dog shark? Visioned the ringed black eyes Of the Swimmers. There, I made a choice: Silverside. Remembered John bent double His belly hunkering Inches above the mud. His pony tail Ebony going silver. His face happy. His eyes far. Above, the modern world Slid by, wheels spinning, Anointed with speed. Dog sharks, I thought, Waiting For The Moon. |
David CampichePoet, author, chef and free-lance writer, Daily Astorian and Chinook Observer. Environmentalist. Archives
May 2023
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