Rebecca Sonniksen 

Mundane moments, a chancing 
glance, a kitchen window snaps
time shut, forever still.  

White 1962 Buick, red interior, port holes in the front fender, 
cruises into Utez’s driveway, strip of mowed grass away, 
the 1958 brown Chevrolet.

Light sifts through rhododendron and forsythia,
distracts Sunday dinner clean up, to glimpse 
a crystal vase of white roses, still life centers 
O’Brians’ dining room table.

Out the kitchen window on Swale Creek Canyon,
time fast forwards. Yellow green laced hills, 
shadow clouds eclipse, drifting into rocky crevices. 

Horizon up, not down. Pull out, not in. 
Ravens cavort on canyon currents, twist to dive, 
wingtips brush, rush of blackness, needles splintering light.

Oak limbs cross-hatched, fling airy pollen upward,  
trunks in contrapposto hold tight, sloping downward,
cupped hands funneling waters through willow thickets, 
hugging flat white rimmed stones. 

A pageantry of turkeys, shimmer in sun, 
iridescent feather fans, blue and red headdress bob,
as winged fenders brush aside matted oak leaves,
snagged under the tires of a 1949 International Harvester tractor 
idle under the oak.

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