sunday morning in december on a southern island in alaska

there are no clouds.
the moon is
half in shadow,
full in splendor.
stars dot the pre-dawn ink.

i run to
hold on to
the dark.
i walk to
the light.

the eastern horizon is
laced with mountains.
the mountains are
stained in white.
the sky glows golden
behind the mountains.
the western horizon
calls back in pink
and pale blue.

the town is small
and most often quiet.
i am surprised to pass
other people out
on the cold gathering morning.
a group of young people
walk in a clot,
home from college.
they laugh
and smile
and i feel

a group of ravens have found
an unsecured bag of garbage,
strewn its contents across the road.
crows and ravens
make meal of our waste.
in the tree tops
sit several eagles.
solitary and fat
atop the spruce.

all around me
the air
is freely given.

i will cut up
golden potatoes,
roast them
in a pan
with salt
and coconut oil.
i will eat them
straight from the pan,
still hissing
and blistered
by heat.

does not
to be

does not
to be

the morning light slowly gathers above snow white mountains, above a still sleeping ocean harbor

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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