a mass approaches
slow, patient, immanent
a hushed power of something
trickles the sea surface
the rooted things, the trees, the rocks
look back at us,
making sure we are aware, attending
it is not a color, but a certain shading
it is not a sound, but a grounding tone
not a smell, but a dusky slowly-seething ether
not warm, not cold, but the temperature
of breath not ours
vast, sure, ponderous
and it moves through us
*Copyright 2010 by Luther Allen. This poem appears in The View from Lummi Island.
. . . . .
Photo copyright Timothy Edward Chandonnet
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