Meditation Above Ozette
From the swamplands
down in the draw
All the frogs
you could ever hope to know
Are singing to each other.
For miles the low hills
bow deeply to the lake
Who holds now the passing
shadows of clouds
As one holds a promise.
East, the ridges still deep in snow are
glowing some
And beyond them
the last ragged patterns of geese
Have disappeared
Laughing their curious laugh
against the night.
I try this poem once, for measure.
No one but the wind.
From Cloud Studies: Twenty Poems from Pawtracks, by Tim McNulty, © 2008, Empty Bowl, Port Townsend