On the edge of Bridgman
there are no sirens—no fanfare
when the river vomits in-
to the gulley, flooding the farm-
land, delivering odds and ends
from the river.
On the Rolling Acres, a shopping cart,
deposited with the receding waters,
is missing the wheels. Dead horses
bloat beside flat fish, staring
at the sun with opaque eyes.
Only two days later, flowers
open to the singing birds.
A brown barn begins to crackle,
cleaning itself—color shining
where mud falls away in sheets.
Only the meadow’s low end, still
a tiny pond jammed with turtles—
remains new.
Walking through my father’s woods
I am reminded of the Eden
of nature, of the sinless creatures
high and low, they neither sow nor
reap, nor gather into barns, but
they are nourished there.
Walking through my father’s woods
I am read by blind saplings,
reaching out to read my face.
They are the turnstiles of the forest,
spreading out their arms to count
the parishioners called to prayer—
and their bent fingers resemble
The Creation of Adam. When I pass
they point to where the sinner went.
They are frail church ushers,
standing watch—but unable
to enforce piety.
Walking through my father’s woods
I see the sun shining through
the noble towers, creating
shadows that conceal the emerald
ash borer’s slow progression.
The soggy-black earth yields easily
beneath my feet, succumbing to the weight
of so much pressure, leaving dispirited
vestibules behind—vessels slowly filling
with muddy-sacred water.
In my father’s woods I am surrounded
by a bewildered audience, keenly aware—
wondering what to make of me
and my clumsy trudging about. It is judgment
day for me. I become a crescendo,
the moment before the denouement
when the music stops and the audience suspends,
silently waiting for God knows what
to happen next—and if I become still,
like the statue of Saint Finan—
a seven minute cemented interlude,
I can hear them, like angels, discussing me from the balcony,
and scribbling “Nephilim” in the Book of Jubilees.
Come August we will embrace again
as sailors do, the “red sky at night,
a sailor’s delight,” being the promise
the morning sun brings—a crucifixion to
the rainy skies. We will always embrace
the changing of the skies, the broken morning—
the shining son. My dad comes in August,
with the first tides, casting his nets
for prawns—and for me. It is the time
for feasting, and boasting and lying—
and some sorrowful August too soon,
dad’s last cast will break the water.
On April the eighth in Raha,
near Abu Dhabi,
Daniel watched sixteen cows gather under a tree
like plastic toys
stationed under the branches,
sheltered from the insistent heavens—
they were trying
to make sense
of the sky—
Who can understand how he spreads out the clouds,
how he thunders from his pavilion*—who?
certainly not cows.
Twenty minutes later, at 4:10, Daniel witnessed
the sixteen fall dead, like the sudden darkness
of a blown string of lights—
a clap of thunder echoed into the heavens.
*Job: 36
Choruses of insects wail
at the cross-
roads of the forest,
where many paths converge. Insistent
choirs perform their orchestrations,
sounding alarms, of-
ten commandments to visitors
trying to decide the right path
to follow. The deafening noise
causes many to avoid the cross-
roads, turning back
to quiet, familiar trails.
