In jasmine-scented air, a cormorant glides past me, takes possession
of the dock. Palms silhouette the sky. An indigo bunting flash
of blue and a sunrise stripe of gold the canal’s length persuades,
almost, that this could be paradise. And yet, I think of home
where the creeks rise in April, their edges rimmed with ice,
rock beds crystal clear mosaics. Where mornings, in fog thick
enough to taste, I walk through woods, search for columbine
and trailing arbutus. I go down to the dark places at the edge
of the stream, places where the earth is soft and easily bruised.
Now, as foam collects in narrow spaces the water trembles.
Between dock and boat, hideous ripples flush out seaweed
and teeming algae. From somewhere comes the smell of baking,
something cinnamon, and at the edge of the water,
two butterflies unite over a dead fish.
In 2012 Carol Newman was honored with the Hauser Prize for prose with her short piece called “Pens,” which was published in Chautauqua. Recently retired from teaching poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction writing at the University of Pittsburgh at Bradford, she is now able to devote more time to her own writing.