Dangling rainbows of skipjack swing from poles on shoulders of peddlers. Housewives with crossed arms breathe the cool morning at their open, hill-perched doors. Calling @3selamat@1 to them softly, I look from road to the blue, calm bay - first harbor of Dutch missionaries, Wallace's fever-misted anchorage. Outriggers ride, water striders at rest; the monthly freighter drowses at the pier. Above, beyond its barren spars, the Arfak Mountains blue horizons burdened with cloud. I turn from sun into an apse of jungle. The path, a century of leaves makes spongy footing, is hung with bare thread-tapestries, a spider crouched in each. As Darwin traced our sandy prints backward from shore into water, Wallace, looking forward, tracked our spoor of animal graves to the future - animals we've sung and painted. Listen. A pair of fantails, wings lost in green domes, drop triads of clarinet notes, globes that plummet air plangent in the jungle silence. A bare beginning of a melody which, beyond the curtain of leaves in the man-made kingdom, Mozart might have played, a grace of notes, a little twilight music. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: WIDOW MCFARLANE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DEVASTATION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON BOYHOOD FRIENDS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SQUIRE BOWLING GREEN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS IS YOUR TOWN NINEVEH? by MARIANNE MOORE MOTHER EARTH by GEORGE SANTAYANA HUFFMAN'S PHOTOGRAPH OF THE GRAVES OF THE UNKNOWN AT LITTLE BIGHORN by KAREN SWENSON |