Sprang
Before tracking pods of killer whales in and out
of Prince William Sound, she read a poem
on deck to start each day. In solstice light,
a moose lumbers across her driveway; I mark
orange and purple sea stars exposed at low tide,
the entrance to an octopus den. Astronomers
have observed two black holes colliding;
and, though the waves support relativity,
we need no equation to feel the sprang of space
and time. A marine biologist gives everything
away, weaves her coffin out of alder branches,
lines it with leaves; a carpenter saws kiln-
dried planks to refurbish a porch; I peruse
the tips of honeycrisp apples we planted
last fall, and, though no blossoming appears,
the air is rife with it; the underground
stirs, and I can only describe it by saying
invisible deer move through an orchard in bloom.
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