— from L’Heure Bleue, or The Judy Poems

The day after Christmas,
a late morning walk.

Otherworldly mist
over the foothills.

A family of geese, startlingly
beautiful when quiet.

Damp earth—when it’s damp
it feels like earth, not ground.

Black feathers,
black ruffled edges

of some kind of tarp
under the landscaping.

Most fossil fuel
does not come from dinosaurs

but sea plankton.
All of these “facts,” garbled

the first time by Jack
and now half-remembered,

surfacing at random.
(True randomness

is rare, though.)
Like pockets of air.