Not my Thing

I could have skipped my walk, but trudged

instead into the rain. Hard rain, a long crawl

through blazing darkness, under the trees.

Raindark, early dusk. Not quite a crawl, more like a crouch.

Not really trees, but thornbushes. Hawthorne and buckthorn.

I could have gone mall-walking, but it’s not my thing.

Through the thorn bushes, it’s two steps

across the Peninsula, river

on the north, bay to the south. The trail clings

long to the slick edge of the bank, a misstep

away from dark water.

On all sides, thunder.

Lightning.

Over and over.

Non-stop crashing,

a blaze of noise and light.

On the trail, half a dead fish,

huge pike, mouth open, eyes

turned up, milky but staring

into the strobe of sky.

A smear of moon shone through clouds,

waxing gibbous, a blur under the lace

of mist, visible between flashes.

To the rain and moon I lifted my face,

suddenly glad I had come. I wanted

to lick all the light from the sky.

Mary Stebbins

051117 for Keith and Pat

for my reading tonight at the Wescott Community Center