This morning at the flats the tide was out
the earth remaining watery-grey
with long-billed sandpipers stalking, bending low
seizing what they found.
In the channel nearby the pelicans swooped
practicing crash-landings, legs stuck out before
webbed feet braced for impact.
I ran past stands of fennel and sage,
eyes squinted in the morning light,
my own feet kicking up gravel and dust.
I paused to watch the sandpipers sweep their beaks
left and right
in swivel motion with round bodies
mirrored in the slick mud they stood on.
Twenty minutes out, and fifteen back:
not much time required
geese beside golfballs
do they ever mistake them
Reading the new sprinkler control manual
an unexpected form
Today I did the scary thing. I emailed the woman who runs the poetry sessions I’ve been attending, and said yes, if you still have openings next season, I’d love to be a featured reader.
That is all.
The remodel began last week
and all is tarps and chaos, splinters and dust
unanswered emails and dinner out.
In hundred degree weather the strawberries wilt
next to sprinkler lines I only just realized were cut.
In the early dusk I was bitten by a wasp
my feet up on the Adirondack chair’s footrest
on the the patio farthest from the house, a refuge from the heat.
It begins again tomorrow
I am pleased. After all this, it’s begun.
In front of the World Trade Center memorial
a father takes a picture
of his wife and child