Quilcene

The Olympic Music Festival found its way into a poem.  Mike and I love sitting on the lawn outside the barn and listening to beautiful music as we doze.

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