A poem

A dozen dirty white pelicans, beaks raised to the rain

Before the storm, I swam in a still pond. One fish, startled, brushed my calf with his small, strange body. The water was clear and silent. I am often the only one making a sound. The reeds slow-danced all afternoon. Later, I hiked for miles along the shore. Fish head, dying and crooked tree, rusted metal hook, small tent, red flowers. Then the storm rumbled—thunder swelled across the lake. Again and again. This is our earth, I wanted to shout. Like the pelicans callooing out on the flat, grey rock—I felt a shining out, brief as the lightning, when I first knew you were coming to the world.