Voices on the Wind
Voices on Relaxation
FAR FOGGY MORNING
by Dick Bakken
Cape Alava Rainforest, Olympic Coast
to mists and the edge
of this world, salt spray breezing into
my face. Blurs wait flopped over rock solidified
out around our ancient cove.
like me, like these cloud-twisted
branches of cedar . . .
for the sun. We don’t shiver O will it come—
but sprawl dozing with a
heart and all.
What we want is here
from the fathoms swelling out
as far as any of us
can care. And you know full well—yes as these
ancestral cormorants shriek
what that might be. So roll over
on a jut
and snore for now,
pulse flung across a glyph—be it hand or star—
slashed by some naked enchanter
—while creation just crashes around us.
What we want
we don’t call with shouts
or even a blink. We but arrive—true
through the eternal
breakers, scrambling steamy boulders they pound
into sand. I lift up dawn-lit in
an ongoing rain
splashing from that high hardened
face you press breathless
mortality suspended by nothing
but a few whited fingertips.
Leap out!—kicking a skyful of scree and fossil
to plummet the updraft—splishhhh!—
into spectral swirls of seal light.
What we want
we already have. And O you know this
is the haven where we
come to that. See how a sun, our old blaze of song
has beat, beat through these limbs
twisted up here over the bubbled granite
that before we crawled onto it
lay no more solid
than the foam ghosting off away
into this day.