WHEN THE FACT OF YOUR GAZE MEANS NOTHING,
THEN YOU ARE TRULY ALONGSIDE
late spring wind sounds an ocean
through new leaves. later the same
wind sounds a tide. later still the dry
sound of applause: leaves chapped
falling, an ending. this is a process.
the ocean leaping out of ocean
should be enough. the wind
pushing the water out of itself;
the water catching the light
should be enough. I think this
on the deck of one boat
then another. I think this
in the Salish, thought it in Stellwagen
in the Pacific. the water leaping
looks animal, looks open mouthed,
looks toothed and rolling;
the ocean an animal full
of other animals.
what I am looking for doesn’t matter.
that I am looking doesn’t matter.
I exert no meaning.
a juvenile bald eagle eats
a harbor seal’s placenta.
its head still brown.
this is a process. the land
jutting out, seals hauled out,
the white-headed eagles lurking
ready to take their turn at what’s left.
the lone sea otter on its back,
toes flopped forward and curled;
Friday Harbor: the phone booth
the ghost snare of a gray whale’s call;
an orca’s tooth in an orca’s skull
mounted inside the glass box.
remains. this is a process.
three river otters, two adults, a pup,
roll like logs parallel to the shore.
two doe, three fawns. a young buck
stares, its antlers new, limned gold
in sunset. then the wind again:
a wave through leaves green
with deep summer, the walnut’s
green husk. we are alive in a green
crashing world. soon winter.
the boat forgotten. the oceans,
their leaping animal light, off screen.
past. future. this is a process. the eagles
at the river’s edge cluster
in the bare tree. they steal fish
from ducks. they eat the hunter’s
discards: offal and lead. the juveniles
practice fighting, their feet tangle
midair before loosing. this
is a process. where they came from.
for how long will they stay.
that I am looking doesn’t matter.
I will impose no meaning.
Process notes go here.