doug fir

i stand and watch the tips of the tall doug firs

swaying at the whim of this day's wild winter wind.

their black-green needles undulate

as does the mane of a great roan steed

sent jetting to the barn, nostrils flared with white foam,

frightened from a flash of lightening

and the following explosion of thunder.

yet the thick trunk of the doug fir holds steady by her swollen roots

sunk merely inches deep in the rocky island soil.

there is a noisy lone gull hanging, as if by hidden wires,

in the grey sky just to the left of this majestic fir. 

must be by smoke and mirrors i suspect,

or a glimpse of magic from our mother creator. 

but for the occasional dip of its wings

the gull appears as still as the old granite statue

of the soldiers at the memorial near the town park,

stiff and sore from years of unrelenting boredom

of standing and watching tourists mill about

while they decide where to eat their mid-day meal

or search for the comfort of drinks in the bars of spring street.

i wonder, is the gull screeching its joy at stationary flight,

calling for a mate to join him in his festive ride,

or merely annoyed at the wind in the gull's harried search for food?

a large, long-dead, wet fir branch crashes at my feet,

thrown at me by the imposing fir,

disturbing my wandering thoughts. 

a widow-maker it's called, and for good reason!

the lofty fir reminds me of the very real danger in these trees.

but now am I aware of the soft rain on my face.