A third of the way across
the Bandon River bridge,
gale winds threaten to hurl me
off the sidewalk and onto the path
of the oncoming cars. I am loathe
to admit defeat, turn back, retrace
hard-won steps enroute to the fort,
the first one built to defend the harbor.
And yet, I am weary of ruins of war.
I don hiking boots in search of answers
to questions swirling in my head about
life, my country, the planet. And yet,
once outdoors, I cannot remember
my conundrums. Camera slipped over
my shoulder, I usually am searching for
the European robin singing from above,
the earthen-striped stonechat nearby,
the bright-white mask of a wagtail.
With each click of the camera,
gratitude. And yet, today, slant rain
stings my face and a nylon bag envelops
the camera. A gust knocks me off balance
and I grab the guardrail, frightened, humbled.
I am not physically as strong as I remember.
Turning back, I notice the limestone cliff
ablaze in the golden glory of the gorse,
as if to remind me it is spring.
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