September 2024
Bio Note: I was born in Italy and moved to Northern California as an adult. I enjoy spending time outdoors and many of my poems reflect that. My first poetry collection Survival Time was published by Sheila-Na-Gig Editions (2022).
Brown Pelicans at Big Lagoon
Out of the mist lingering on the water,
the flock materialized ahead of my standup
paddle board, huddled on a patch of sand.
I glided past the long-billed birds
following the curves of Diamond Creek
hemmed by tall sedges dotted
with red-winged blackbirds, their nasal song
a counterpoint to my paddle’s rhythmic dipping.
Farther on, willows narrowed the creek
until passage through their curtain proved impossible.
I turned around, drifted again near the small sandy island:
A lone bald eagle stood where the pelicans had been.
White tail flashing in the sun, it flew away.
My mind tried to imagine twenty minutes
between hundreds of brown pelicans
and a single bald eagle. We witness so little
of others’ existence, their life is what happens
between our encounters. Easy to envision the bird of prey
swooping down and chase away the seabirds.
But why would they, large and numerous, defer
to a single opponent, and why would it claim
their place when space abounds all around? Maybe
the pelicans took off to land and lounge elsewhere,
or to reach the nearby ocean, into which they plunge-dive to fish,
then the eagle came to rest on the same spot,
an empty center, its power not challenged, yet.
Write
Like the squad is about to hear “Fire!”
and you too, staring down their guns’ barrels.
Like a washing machine loaded with
ink in the bleach dispenser.
Like fire ants are feasting on you.
Like the sunset you are ignoring
won’t be sunrise again,
ever.
So your mother disapproves:
she will anyway, in person or nightmare.
Like you know what you are doing,
but not totally and only rarely.
Like Cassandra, lone believer in her stories.
Like a spider weaving its net
from spine to spine of a barrel cactus.
In the early morning dew drops hang.
Leave a crack for water to trickle out,
turn into a creek, a river flowing
to embrace the ocean. The mouth
is not where the river ends
nor where the ocean begins:
it’s where water is.
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