A black Studebaker lights
the wall of a mountain cutaway
then leaves the road -
looming steel, airborne, frightening
cockatoos on a pine raid.
I saw this, and descended a wet cliff
in sensible shoes to the wreck,
thinking of a dark ship
on a reef in thirty fathoms,
the cockatoos going off
like surface-feeding blackfish.
I found wind in the driver's hair,
sun on my wedding ring.
Strange what you notice,
and what you remember:
my daughter at a card table
set with miniature cups, saying
"Gentlemen don't wear hats inside."
I dragged the driver clear
of twisted metal, his blood
on my shoes, and the birds
cresting low cloud / pale water,
into which a late sun
or hunter's moon was about to fall.