A line of white pelicans flies past,
synchronized as a rowing team,
sunset clouds like raspberry puree
above Pelican Butte.
I live for these astonishments.

The classroom radiator pumps heat
like a steroid-addled weightlifter.
"How does one measure the extent of their life?"
Evan writes. I walk table to table,
four classes, two days a week.
Apple writes, "The sun sharpens
as the day presses forth."
Every class, I'm surprised by music.

I stand outside my door at 6am,
as three Great Horned Owls
sing their six syllable songs,
rhythmic as slam poets, huge
yet impossible for me to see.
Tuesday nights I share two hours
with community writers in the thrall
of this world, passionate about their loves,
hilarious, humble and generous with their words.

When we write, our voices grow deeper,
broader, measure the extent of our lives,
sharpen as the day presses forth.

Odd isn't it to have emerged
from that dark Eden to rise
and ebb no matter how we cordon off
and bargain. It's summer with the heat
turned high, gray sky, trees shaking
leaves at every passing car. How
far we have driven past our welcome.
We say never again and then repeat.
Coyotes stare from azaleas' shade
and we are filled with mad anxiety
and sad seedless watermelon.