Sitka Rain
(In the Temperate Rain Forest Along the Southeast Coast of Alaska)
by Dee Canfield
I leave home and walk the Pacific edge, alone.
At the gate I catch my hat
And wind slaps rain in my face.
In the yard next door, forgotten laundry— panties green and silky sag on the line.
Storming out, the raging ocean
Forgets itself in fragile shells upon the shore.
Is the whale out there in the dark foamy swells of the sea,
As I walk in wind that bends dark trees in drenching rain?
Will my boots hold tight their seams?
A raven calls and a battered truck splashes:
“Friends Don’t Let Friends Eat Farmed Fish!”
Now a blue Chevy — “Eat moose! 12,000 wolves can’t be wrong.”
I walk 10 blocks to Kenny’s red door and red lanterns
For a tiny hot cup of tea and “S10 —
I’ll have Kung Pao chicken, please.”
Outside the wind howls — Inside
Zoom steaming bowls of soup and piled-high plates
And smells and sounds of kitchen clatter.
A table of family next to me wolfing food,
Then sizzling hot is mine and I come to Earth and eat, still wanting.
Now the long walk home, and remembering
Last night. You on guitar,
Strumming strings attached to deep and hidden chambers.
The warmth of music filling us up —
The tap of your boot against my chair (sonic boom).
But tonight I will sleep and
Dream within the moaning of the wind.
