The Sound of My Voice
Above the steep Bald Mountain trail, the red tailed hawk circles,
watches my slow progress toward the summit. I see you
standing high above me on a rocky ledge, your form shimmers
in the sun. I call look but only hear your great laugh echoing
down the Valley before you press on into the afternoon light.
The bald eagle sweeps low over the riffs and eddies of the Snake,
watches me make the cast we learned together, land a Rainbow.
I call look, forgetting once again, you are gone
beyond the sound of my voice, beyond the next bend.
The word echoes along the rocky banks of the River.
From the Northwoods Lift I spy a porcupine asleep
in the heart of an Aspen. I call look and the wind rushes
across my chapped face, snatches the word, tumbles it across
the face of Vail Mountain, into Sun Down Bowl, far away
from the empty seat beside me on the double chair.
The Blue Heron glides to a stop at the marsh edge in Kiawah,
stalks the shallows for breakfast, spears silver minnows,
careless frogs with precision and patience. I call look
but hear only the soft squeak of the empty hammock,
the hummingbird’s scold over missing red sugar water.
On Bohicket Creek at sunset, a flock of brown pelicans
rests near the bank. A school of dolphins follows
our boat, jump, twirl, speak in high pitched
squeals to the grandchildren you never met. I hear
engine thrum, their call to me, Look! Look! Look!