foghorns...
we lower a kayak
into the sound

riveredge old growth:
a towering window
of stars

summer's end
again the river
red with salmon

fog inside and out Seattle ferry

sudden sun
snow peaks brighten
for the long drive home

the first chip
in our windshield
northern star

fogged in—
sea mist fills
the foxglove bells

misty spring light—
every bare branch glows
moss green

releasing him...
the bull trout's back
scarred by talons

space needle
the news helicopter’s
sun flash

windfall apple
                         I relish
the wormless side

Juneau icefield
cocky tourist looking for
skate rentals

slate gray glacial water
the guide
talks of blueberries

salmon run—
the bridge clogged
with people

Mount St. Helens
how humble and delicate
the footpath lily

moss hangs down
         dripping with rain
my mother’s voice

patchy fog in the bay
when it lifts, will the islands
still be there?

Village island
a row of totems
buried in moss

minus tide
my hairline
receding

a pod of orcas
how blue the sky
they touch with light

one deep breath
for a moment the pine
is part of me

that whale I could have touched
surfaces again
in my mind

Rainier behind clouds
I take a picture
where it might be

sound
of the first float plane
dividing the rain

leaving—
ponderosas comb a low tone
from the wind

end of summer
the soft touchdown
of a seaplane

wind in the cedars . . .
sometimes I shudder
with happiness

top of the Space Needle
how it feels
to spot a whale

the trail narrows—
every shadow
a possible bear

a leaf underfoot
gathers rainwater enough
to show open sky

morning fog . . .
climbing the shell
of an old lighthouse