poem Visitations



The beginning of the wind found the surface of the bay

Touched it, touched my face. At the end of the day

Sharing the shore with two crows and an old hound mix.

I knew that dog, white and tan, a grinning dog.

All spring and into summer, she walked down the road

carrying her growing litter of pups.


She’d stop under our steps in the shaded, cool sand

roll and snort and kick, take an hour’s sleep

and then turn down the road and walk her way

back to the village.


The crows feathers shone like oil, like ink.

They hopped a bit then flew to the roof

to study the local opportunities.


September 1993


Author: William J. Gibson

62 year old - writer/photographer Canadian, survived open heart surgery, received kidney transplant, sometimes dour, sometimes amusing, over six feet in height, severely follicle challemged

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