Craig Brandis

Loafing

I stand up from the table saw,
let it whine down to a stop.

Through the garage door
I can hear maple trees

murmuring in their creole.
The storm track in the Pacific

rides up over the Queen
Charlotte Islands,

scraping the last of summer’s pollen
from the tops of the fir trees,

to drop into the cold boil
of Bristol bay.

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