I’m heading north toward
the bay.
It’s good,
Starting downhill.
|
My
goal is marked,
As I turn from my drive onto the street,
By distant soaring
gulls.
Slow strokes of
dignity.
Exotic punctuation
marks in
The illegible
language of the clouds.
The sun is at
my back.
My challenging
shadow strides ahead,
Taunting but manly
company,
No matter how
briskly I walk.
The wind is from
behind
And easily accommodated
Just by turning
up my collar.
|
 |
Then,
soon, I see the blue bay
With, some days, murmured
declarative
Intonations of whitecaps
Or, other days,
Sibilant whispered interrogative
tints
And shades of azure
asking eternal questions
For which I have no
answers, but happily
Seek them anyway, step
by briskly pacing step,
Downhill.
When I reach the waves,
Fracturing themselves
on the rocks
And sprawling on, clawing
at, the sands
Periodically,
Expectantly,
Systematically,
Impassively,
Interminably,
I sympathize with them
a moment
Then turn back
The whole world changes.
I squint against the
sun,
Now higher and warmer
in the sky.
Zip up my jacket, at
first,
Against the wind on
my chest.
Until the uphill trudging
exertion
(Dragging my black and
languid shadow behind)
Makes be zip it down
again.
Flapping crows tear
the air to rags.
Grackles walk meaninglessly,
Totally un-choreographed,
On the sidewalks
And avoid me as some
irrelevant, begrudged
Inter-
ruption
To their inane wanderings.
Uphill I’m all inside
myself.
Lungs, heartbeat, footfall,
sinew, all
Usurp attention even
from
Mrs. Collins’ yellow
roses which, I swear,
Were not blooming on
my downhill walk.
Downhill is better,
yes,
Though, everything considered,
It’s better to live
up on the hill.
If I had to begin by
walking up,
Facing the sun, wind,
crows and urgent pulse,
I might not go walking
at all.
