Fossil Hunting with My Father


The hills of Shell Ridge used to be underwater, 
my father said as we walked along the trails,
searching for minute signs in the
rocks scattered across the path.
Hidden in their crevices,
there may be curving whorls
or leafy patterns of veins 
belonging to creatures 
trapped by time.
We were surrounded by 
endless hills dotting the sky 
like hot air balloons.
Looking for fossils, 
we stepped on the past
as we walked on with our eyes.
Suddenly, my father stopped
and crouched down among the
rocks lining the sides of the trail.
He peered at them closely as
his hands traced the rocks,
reading their years with his fingertips.
We crowded around him,
eager to discover his treasure.
Then a familiar shape would catch our eyes--
a curve of a shell
or spindly bones.





Foghorns


As I lie in my bed
In the early hours of morning
I peer through the slits of my window
At a city draped in grey clouds
Houses line long streets
In dream-like pastels
Square as little children’s teeth 
 
Then
Collapsing the silence of
A city nestled in sleep
Comes a low rumble
Like fingers tentatively searching
For completeness
 
I listen
Drenched in blankets
To braying foghorns 
And the answering snores of
My father sleeping 
next door