WHAT IS BELOW

By the stream egrets linger.
Shouts rise from the dead end lane
as they ascend in tiers. White over white

over white, their pale wings
shadow each other. Above the fields,
hawks effortlessly circle,

at play, yet intent
on their prey. As the hills fade
a patchwork quilt of houses

drapes the horizon,
threadbare gold
stitched on windows and roofs.

The flat roof of my vantage,
a moss-backed lake.
Rooted, yet floating there,

it’s no lotus I sit upon.
My pillow and mat lie abandoned
like a stone in raked sand.

Cool dusk dispatches me below.
As I pass through the kitchen,
the refrigerator hums its disapproval.

From my daughter’s room,
Daydream riffs reverberate.
Before the wide moon of the computer

my wife bows. Her fingers
egrets settling on the fields.
As night closes in,

I float over this page
like a hawk circling
what’s below

1995

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