Into the Woods

spring’s leafing—

the sound and the fury

of the plantation creek

unused tracks—

on the poor part of town

the sun also rises

tourist surge—

photographing the old man

and the sea he watches

on the road

a young hitchhiker

with a sign to nowhere

the moon is down

below the fjord’s mountains—

a shackled caribou

cannery row—

the smell of wood and tar

and foreign t-shirt vendors

separation day—

a path disappears

into the Maine woods