dawn:
pink
blue
pastels holding portent of rain, percent chance: 20,
and poop, 100.
outside the rising sun sets afire the elm, the sagebrush,
sending embers of burning rimrock sailing
across the Okanogan
through the open window
bouncing off the floor-level mirror
and alighting on the cheeks of our 10-month-old:
light, alight, delight.
later
after breakfast perhaps
will come the inevitable bonk
the innumerable slings and arrows of unpredictable countertops,
shiftless laundry baskets, wily carpets—
percent chance of recovery: 99,
while outside the sagebrush, the river, the vigilant eagle
bear insults more predictable and less forgiving
development, diesel fumes, the thoughtless Coke bottle—
percent chance of recovery? shhh.
for a moment
I yearn
with every cell of my body
for a paintbrush, big enough to paint over our past,
undo the last decade of war, the last century of carbon emissions,
the last millennium of unchecked growth,
to make the world outside
as whole again
as my glowing son
written the day after the OLT poetry night, 2013
Okanogan River Watershed, Omak
