Between rain showers
I sneak out on the porch
At night
To watch the outlined shadows
Of my little plants
The foreground setting
For larger tree beings
Of cedar and spruce.
Everything
Is moist
Including the step
On which I perch.
It is the night ideal
For slug dating
As they venture
Through the yard,
Picking up plant debris and
Leaving slimy trails
That stick to the noses
Of my dogs in the morning.
In the distance of this evening,
I hear the "Om…"
Of mournful buoy
And I imagine its
Black, cylindrical shape
Bobbing effortlessly in the sea
Capturing the wind in its nooks and crannies
And chanting for all who listen.
It makes me think of faraway places,
Like China or Tibet
And monks
And I am entertained by the idea
That there may be
A little bit of these distant lands
Found in Sitka Sound
Not too far
From this porch of mine.