Quilcene
a blue sky day mottled by clouds
so white their edges cut the eye
from the southeast a gyrating
mist
under a layer of billowed iron
that rushes
a dispersed atmosphere
an uneven blending of white
cotton
over gray wool then black dots
birds
a seagull, to wrens, a crow
they crease the pattern
a seam of wings
beating against the flow of
Dvorak
Avis Adams
