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The upper third color field
is all tin flash, ocean blue shoulders and tics.
That wide mid-brown crossed by shine is sand
and fresh water going home. And now and again, again,
a gull rides the invisible, gone over a foreground green
of shorepines and salal.
Now someone in a hooded jacket not quite pink
and not quite orange walks in black rubber boots
out to the spent-foam shallows, stops, looks, as one does,
curious or found or lost out of time, looks, does not move,
looks, turns then, walks back. Surf fishers. Gulls.
And that’s it, one morning in the drama of each of us alone
and by all our senses touched, not knowing
what so troubles us to wonder.
Copyright 2022 Lex Runciman
Born and raised in Portland, Lex Runciman has lived most of his life in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. His books include Salt Moon: Poems 1981-2016 published by Salmon Poetry.