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Chuckanut Drive, in Winter
by Jane Alynn

I go slow
along this road
to see things clearly.

A resident eagle
this evening
soars silently
in circles, her eyes
on the bay below.

Long, sharpened shadows
drape rock shoulders
that bear
in their element
life and death.

I like to park there
where palm-frond fossils
are caught like breath
in the old stone
amid fountains of ferns.

A torrent of leaves fell last week.
Maples and alders, freshly claimed,
add to the sweet odor of rot,
those already turning
to the matter of rebirth.

On days of heavy rain
boulders let go.
It's a fearful thing, not knowing
the dead-fall of the next one.
I wish me luck and keep going.




From her book: Necessity of Flight (Cherry Grove Collections 2011)                                              

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