September 11: Nature Writing, Matt Gavin Frank, "Sagittarius at Dusk"

I got home a little while ago from an evening of Nature Writing.  I judged a nature essay contest this summer, and tonight was the culmination:  awards were given, essays were read, and hot chocolate was imbibed.  It was a lovely evening.

Driving home afterwards along Lake Superior at dusk, I thought more about 9-11.  The waves were crashing against the beach, and the trees were wild with wind.  The moon wasn't in sight, and by the time I hit the highway, it was coal dark.

I'm not going to get all deep and reflective.  I've had enough of that tonight.  I'll leave the heavy stuff to Matt Gavin Frank.

Saint Marty's going to eat some Pringles now.

Sagittarius at Dusk

by:  Matthew Gavin Frank

In the sand, the crab
turns over, shoots its white belly
to the teenage girl, jogging in yellow
shorts.  She thinks it's a dime

but is too wary of the fat-legged
fisherman with the blue-and-white lure
to pick it up, find out
it's a crab.

The fisherman just became a grandfather
at forty-one, holds in his heart
a scrap of metal the size
of a dime.  The purple he sees

is not real, the egret dies eating.
The strangest things keep us alive at dusk.
From this bench, I can see the power plant,
but not the tired people inside

murmuring their small stories
in between small sparks.

Works for me