Joan Graham

Divide the year into seasons, four, subtract the snow then add some more green, a bud, a breeze, a whispering behind the trees, and here beneath the rain-scrubbed sky orange poppies multiply.

September breeze, an island chill, the streets so quiet . . . still, seem wider now but soon they fill with gulls that stride and squawk and boldly walk the middle of the road— I wish I understood gull-talk perhaps they, too, feel harmony no crowds, no noise now once again just sand, waves, sky, and sea . . . just gulls and me