Meditation Above Ozette

From the swamplands
           down in the draw
All the frogs
           you could ever hope to know
Are singing to each other.

For miles the low hills
           bow deeply to the lake
Who holds now the passing
           shadows of clouds
As one holds a promise.

East, the ridges still deep in snow are
           glowing some
And beyond them
           the last ragged patterns of geese
Have disappeared

Laughing their curious laugh
           against the night.
I try this poem once, for measure.

No one but the wind.

From Cloud Studies: Twenty Poems from Pawtracks, by Tim McNulty, © 2008, Empty Bowl, Port Townsend