The Road Kills in West Marin
A gold and black lump,
a levantine tapestry abandoned
by a female mallard,
a gown shrugged off in a heap
by the blasé sultana.
Sergeant skunk headed back to camp,
his insurrectionary foray strewn purple,
breathing through the last embers
of his burning leaves.
A three spike buck
with two vultures riding tandem,
twin surfers hanging ten
while the colossal tsunami of Shiva rolls under.
The raccoon’s one paw lightly
lifted in stop motion,
salutations from the shining pool
at the end of time.
Everyone is so restless in Spring.