Three Sixty

By Ruth Gooley

From the Overlook, I can see it all:
the scythelike bow of the Santa Monica Bay,
the far-off crawl of Catalina Island, rain-green hills,
a red-tailed hawk, sun-bright, wings outstretched like a jet.

In thrall, I decide, again,
that this is where my ashes
will be scattered, here,
where sky, sea, mountains, city collide.

A leaf moves oddly,
against the wind.
A grasshopper or
a green butterfly, perhaps.
But when I get up to look,
I see a furry grey head
peeking up from a hole.
The animal ducks back like a bashful child,
jumps out, grabs a small thick leaf in its mouth
and retreats.

I forget all about my ashes
and marvel at the mole.


First published in Red Poppy Review, July 2011