Hunter Hill

Above Columbus Parkway
it rises to the east,
creased with oak
and dry grass,
grazing cattle, bored,
loitering horses,
and the gliding hawk hunting
in the rough granite
and withered timber.

But hidden by high, jagged peaks,
the mute Miwok headman observes
the cattle and the hawk,
and the swift automobile
hissing
down the smooth, black road
below
Hunter Hill.

Author's Note:
the Miwok were the indigenous people of the nothern part of the San Francisco Bay Area. They were nearly wiped out in the 19th century by diseases (mainly small pox) brought by the European settlers. Miwok descendents still live in this area, though.


My Miwok would be a ghost.
(image of "Miwok Headman" from http://www.firstpeople.us/)

The Confrontation

The angry sparrow, narrow and light
fiercely pursued the thieving crow
slender beak stabbing
smooth black feathers,
rising and diving,
rolling and turning,
a vicious top-gun
dog-fight.

Then the crow, tired of torment,
set heavily down on the high lamp post
as the small bird circled, crying invective,
taunting the crow to rise again and fight!

but the old crow, patient and wise
settled comfortably for this shrill siege
and calmly waited for the air-show to end.

Finally, exhausted,
the sparrow gave up,
but claiming victory,
like Odysseus
nearly home
at last,

became Homer,
and composed his own
epic poem
of the fierce
midnight raven,
homewrecker
wrought low,
driven down
into death’s
bitter dust,

which, of course, he sang
in heroic,
avian meter
to his faithful,
Penelope.

From this High Window

From this high window
the invisible wind
moves silent trees:
motion without sound,
dance without song.

Behind painted walls
and heavy curtains,
I cannot not hear
the tumult,

but opening the heavy door,
at last I hear the trees sing,
stirred to passion
by unseen hands
waving branches
swept up
by the compelling wind

and drawn outside,
exposed and complete,
finally I face the clear maelstrom,
my own hair flying free,

and gaze at the trees,
wild men
dancing as they chant
savage hymns
to their howling god.

The Doctor Said

The stroke was bad, and arriving at the hospital
we expected hushed, grim words
from the preoccupied doctor.
The doctor said it was brain-stem, hopeless;
the coma was total; his mind, the doctor said,
was at the bottom of a deep well.

So we entered his room and
saw the machinery of life-support,
reassuring noises, glowing red displays,
tubes and wires tethering his shattered mind to the bed.

The doctor said that Ed would not come back,
and we should cut off the milky food
flowing down a clear tube to his still living gut,
and give him a gentle death by starvation;
it would not be painful, the doctor knowingly said.

But his coma was so restless and active,
his eyes were wide and darting,
his mouth opened, as though to speak,
and his legs rose and fell,
like he was walking to Sunday Mass.

He looked alive, so we refused
and directed the nurses
to keep hope flowing,
at least for now.

When it was my turn to sit with him,
I said, “Hey Ed! You know,
I’ve been drinking all your beer at home,” and he smiled
and looked at me with humor and said, “ohhh?”

But the doctor said it was automatic reflex,
and smiled indulgently at me.

The next morning the doctor,
(expecting no response) said,
“Hello Ed. How are we feeling today?”
but stopped, nothing to say at last,
when Ed replied, “Lousy!”

Ed lived for the next three years
as grandchildren were born,
baptisms were witnessed,
and first communions were celebrated,

and ready at last, he died
one bright, peaceful
April morning,
with nothing more
to be said.

Grounded

The afternoon breeze
rushes through the top of my big tree;
its canopy sways and sings in hushed tones
as the declining sun ignites
its outermost leaves
with green fire.

Through swaying limbs
I see brilliant summer sky
promising stars beyond
if only I can rise high enough
to achieve black space;
but I’ve never been there, never risen
beyond this illusionary, flat world
that confines my sight.

Never have I ascended that pillar of flame,
pressed deeply against the astronaut’s contoured seat,
breathing noisily in helmeted glass,
as computers glow reassuringly in darkness ,
promising that everything will work,
and orbit will be achieved.

No, my space journeys are all interior.

Earth-bound, I am firmly cradled in my deep, leather chair,
and only through my high, arched window
view the nightly dance of wind and tree,
of moon and rising stars.

Envious, I hear excited starlings, one to another,
tell stories of daring flight
through the good sky, high
above this green,
firm earth.