2
Imagine the sound of that comet,
Its tail a contrail split in two,
Dust and fried ice, the Sun
Seething with impotence
As the comet passed it by,
Somehow staying together.
Then I saw it the way I saw it,
Wicked blue morning,
Cows in the field with
Better eyes than me
But there on the horizon
A comet
Upside down, breeching, glowing with
Prank light
An hour before dawn...
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.
The Writing of John B. Randall 