Leejay Kline

At Dawn

the black trees rearrange themselves,
giants hunched against the shuddered
flashing off the bay and I wonder
if I'll get my walk in before
the rain arrives.

Another walker heads my way
swinging forthright, rigid arms in
hearty cadence, smiling, selling.
Our eyes connect and peel away
and someone says

good morning for a walk and
someone says it looks like rain.
Maybe we'll intersect again
on this path in opposition
and I'll worry

about the protocol of speaking
twice. Some I know by sight I meet
just once in my chase along the edge
yet note their progress through the trees
and playground toys. Their

paths are set in figures eights
or smaller loops. Perhaps this
walker hasn't caught her orbit yet.
The threat of rain has passed.

Sea Level

A Mockingbird has built her nest
Against the shelter of the dune: secret
In the sea oats and goose tongue plantains.

A snake lives on the dune. I saw it
Yesterday, undulating dark and heavy
In the sea rocket's green leather shelter.

So far, the snake has kept his distance
Beyond the weathered walk that cuts my dune  
In two.    I want to interfere.

Whose greater plan would be upset
For me to stop this coil across the
Morning dampened sand? 

Suspicious tongue now tastes the air. 
Catslit eyes pivot slow and choose their view,
But I've no sense he's seeing me.