The September-November 2012 entry included poems based on my travelling, be it for business or pleasure. Origins on Galapagos, Out of Close Range, and On Andean Time are a continuation. Location wise, the first relates to the Ecuadorian islands, the second to a wildlife photo safari in Kenya, Africa, the third to springtime fishing in the Andes mountains of Chile.
Origins on Galapagos
Lucky ducks, though they’re terns,
that can always bank on
a cornucopia surfacing around them—
marooned onshore pools
with kelp, eelgrass, crabs
clinging to the bottom…
Their ancestors also fared well,
as per my post mortem memory.
Enough to establish a flock of birds
with blood lines tied to flowing tides.
My kind died out long ago,
overcome by an unstable volcano.
Had our wings been bigger
we’d have flown off the island;
or swam away if we’d known how.
Likewise, I can recall when
the first newcomber was spotted
poking around one sunrise.
He appeared alone, but as the sky shined
others showed up, mouthing sounds
like “right here” and “Dr. Darwin.”
Each day they arrived early, left
after hovering over scores of nests.
Naturally, they never saw a feather
nor heard us chirping.
We were no more than a body of ashes
left behind like lava—the darkest part
of the sand they stepped on
while doing their legwork
up and down dunes.
They came close, though,
those curious creatures
that ran around
after every tern.
Out of Close Range
The cheetahs parched, hyenas hoarse,
plodding pods of antelopes,
as a two o’clock sun smelts the veldt.
Between them and the river, men with rifles,
lots of bullets, time on their side, hide
behind a blind made from mud, woven reeds.
Not far off, nor much later, a zebra appears.
He’s all white with a black mane
that looks like wings.
The hunters‘ll shoot high
if he flies by, low if he trods.
One way or another they can’t miss,
unless it’s a mirage.
On Andean Time
By degrees, the lower slopes turn
into a kaleidoscope—
on one side, blue mingles with white—
a split image of the sky.
On the other, yellow flashes—
as bright as sunlight…
In winter these slopes look like
the rest of the mountain—
no flowers blooming out
of season, only near and far
the cold glow of snow.
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