The sloop on motor

(a first Dharma 2009 poem?)

the arch of the GWB’s span, the arch of clouds over. north of me, the clouds so low they’re below the tops of the Palisades. south, the bridge has made own weather and the clouds are rolling up a hill of air higher than its towers. the river’s curve to north is lost in dense grey. a sloop, just south of the buoy, has its sails down and is moving on motor. how the cars are stopping for 20 secs at the dead-end overlooking the river, to see the view. normally they immediately turn north to go on the highway north or make a u around the little park on the south to catch the highway south. how the trees — maples, oaks, and wild apples wearing grapevines — are full and rounded. how the bridge is straight and strong. the high stone walls. the river’s on the ebb. the rain’s monsoon-like, even on the slope of this steep hill, the water’s more than ankle deep. how if there were no streets, this would be a wilderness threaded with streams feeding the river. a beautiful man in a purple shirt and running shorts, walking by the river. how I worry that I’m weak and might slip. I wore backless sandals, for the rain. leaning on the stone wall for a while, I decide to go. a rock-dove flies by to land in its cranny in the face of the stone wall below me, south of me. it flew by a few feet from my face. it made a long, long landing. beautiful colors — blues, greys, creams, and a little black — to the undersides of its wings — the curves of the overlapping wingfeathers distinct in the rain, against the soft clouds. how when I got home, the only bit of cloth dry enough to get the rain off my keys was a rain-shadow my left elbow made against my waist. how pneumonia sucks, and rain sings. my hair and skin and spirit are grateful that I walked in the rain. I wanted to to catch the smell of the salt, but the rain was washing the air, so it wasn’t salty.