Sink, Swim, or Fly


There is a lone goose on a vanishing dock.  The lakewater is up. The floating dock’s platform is gone from sight but a railing moored to the dock is still above the surface, barely.  Like the railing, the goose appears to be standing on water. As the dock dips further the goose has three options: sink, swim, or fly.


Rattle across the water, washboard blues and white streak through the air.  Look out minnows! It’s the kingfisher, flying from weeping willow to vanishing dock. It finds purchase on the railing, stuck there like a feathered magnet.


Saturday morning, more rain overnight, the dock is further submerged but inches below the surface the platform still remains.  The heron knew it was there, trust in its water landing. In the fog, the heron keeps watch o’er the lake.  

To continue with this short prose poem...

Highway One Across

I rolled into the pocket of
that eight-ball-sided dream.
I bumped out with the poetry heebie-jeebies,
crapulous and reeking of split-end angst.
I could not sleep until I brushed the clues away;
it was only then I’d filled the crossword in:
as quiet as the heron fishing
reluctantly in a culvert along the bleeding interstate;
as solemn as the screeching hawk perched in a sunset tree
meditating keen on its blind, nocturnal dinner—
At home amongst the long-legged power towers,
changing colors like a leaf, not afraid to fall.