The cedar tree holds up the night,
its branches the dark blue of early dawn
in those pre-pink moments
where it is neither night or day,
and behind it the mountain sleeps in shadow
like some deep-sea giant peeking through
gold curtains of silt and seaweed,
the wind carving against it,
onto the backs of birds and whales and by-the-wind-sailors
floating up through blue layers of time,
the stars above them dipping low,
Orion rising and then sinking
into the branches
the wheel spinning, turning.
undulating, each star spiraling,
the way a wave reaches the shore
and pulls back again.
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I’m the author of four environmental and science fiction novels: Call of the Sun Child, Listen, The Seas of Distant Stars, and Blue Mar.
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