lifting fog . . .
the wing-whistle
of a mourning dove

the comfort
of her conversation
gentle rain

foam flowers
the pull of sand under
my inner child

salmon ladder
the surrounding trees
stuffed with eagles

at the goldfish grave
we form a circle
of river stones

sixth anniversary
acorns between the cracks
of the deck boards

autumn twilight
my breath in and out
with the waves

border collie
            rounding up
       the tide

the hooked fish’s
last gasp . . .
its eye on me

autumn mist —
wrapped
in grandma’s shawl