An older poem newly revised. Unfortunately, a formatting problem prevented me replacing it in its original chronological place. Instead, it's being posted fresh.


A Rare Atmospheric Anomaly
Sept 28 2008

You’d think the smell
would have overwhelmed you,
gagging
that many fish, all at once.
Quicksilver forms
turning dull in the heat of the sun.

But it’s sound you remember most,
all those small stiff bodies
flipping and flopping 
on cold hard ground.
Until they lay
gasping on their sides;
gulls circling, squawking
sniffing dogs.

You always liked categories  —
the permanence of names
everything in its place.
So life feels safe
predictable. 
But when fish fall from the clear blue sky
you know anything is possible  —
that the flat grey lake
could rise-up, and take you in;
or the land
you took for granted
swallow you whole.

And you,
walking, by yourself, by the shore
might find you’re not alone
after all. 
Free fish
like manna from heaven.
And someone special, unexpected
who will walk hand-in-hand;
gather you up, and believe
all your fabulous tales.