Morning arrives cloud-dark and humid. Low tide. Wind in the trees and a flow of birdsong. A great blue heron flies off when I step outdoors, cracking loudly. Cicadas. The buzzing of insects. A kingfisher ratchets by, sounding an alarm. Blue scent of air, as if soon it will rain. Finches in the trees. The air sweet, odour of cut grass and salt air, a season drying. The dog wanders the yard eating grass. No person or industry visible anywhere on the horizon, just islands, stuttering along an empty sea. And behind it all, the dull mechanical roar of dryers at the goldmine in the hills. Someone’s been making false promises again, tearing earth’s bones, as if with this blow we will live anew.
All pictures are of the islands of West Quoddy Bay; the top image is from eight or nine years ago, the bottom two, this week.
14 lines–is this short prose poem (if it is that) also a sonnet? A sonnet is a chest with fourteen drawers.