FIRST CUP—POETRY FRIDAY

Sunday morning
Inn at Arch Rock

The boats slip out to sea,
under and through a low hanging fog.
The sea is gray, still. Quiet.
No wind. The noise: the soft snore of my wife
in another room and the soft scratch of pencil on paper.
Cat feet quiet.

The sea, on course, in constant motion.
My soul, off course, in constant uncertainty—
rhythms of yes and no. I’m tired this morning.
Of body and soul weary. I wish: Away. How good
It would be to stay. Simply stay. Here. Simply. Away.
From the clamor that besets and agitates the soul.

I would stare at the sea.

Yesterday, all day, whales.
Off Pirate Cove, slightly north of Depoe Bay. Four,
perhaps, five. I spent hours staring at spout
and back and fluke. The mystery returned;
my thoughts, often in the case of whales, traveled
to God. Whales are convincing arguments for God.
(As is all.) Yet these big, air-breathing,
delicate, impossibilities seem
to me especially so. Intelligence
in their eyes, these big-brained
deep-diving, far-swimming deep singers.

—amk