Montara Sunday

In the window clouds shift silent Bright brown hills turn black
edged with fog

A small dirt road
rises from the valley

Red or grey or yellow house, and great
beast trees
stretching

I smell sour weed wind
Touch your body shapes with my hand

Or make word designs
mirrors
small sculptures
or a dancer in midair

Seeking balance
I hold a wood spoon
an egg

In the kitchen children fight
or play
I am a lion mother
watching

The rhythms

change

Flapping and struggling
I emerge
new
leaves in my hair
my body spread
among the sky

the sea. February 1975