Haiku for Recovery

Coughs still rattle me
until I double over,
but my brain works now.

Highway Sounds

Road trains thunder passed
with a heavy whoom-whoom-whoom:
the doppler effect.

Fevered Dreams of Home

The fever makes me dream I'm on an airplane
with an impossibly smooth and speedy flight,
sitting in the window seat next to my father.
I'm home for November.

The plot gets waylaid a bit until I'm wandering
through the streets of my childhood neighborhood
meeting people that I've never actually met.
It's suddenly June.

In the basement, their spacious house hides
a high-tech post-apocolyptic bunker
complete with rows of washing machines.
I must be November.

I stop on my way out of the too long foyer
to play with the puppy that's appeared.
I used to dream about this house as a child.
I remember it's June.

Obvious Questions

In the waiting room,
two friends happily reunite;
one asks, 'How are you?'

The Birds in the Road

I see the birds in the road up ahead,
their heads bent down to peck at something
nearly ground flat into the pavement.
I pay them little attention, leaning forward
instead to rifle through my bag for a pen
to capture an inspiring thought before
it flies away from me and out of sight.
I must hear something, a quiet curse
or the birds themselves, because I look
up to find a large, dark eagle spanning
my side of the windshield, struggling
to miss the front of our barreling car.
I duck on instinct, as if this station wagon
isn't so much larger than my own frame,
and the driver taps the brakes just enough
for the eagle to maneuver to the side
as we fly passed it on the highway.

Pilbara Creeks

When we drive on the highway,
the signs spell out the creek names
as we pass over or through dry
dirt paths or on the rare occasion,
a creek bed that still has a puddle.
But they all have names, long
often complex names for the waterway
that only flows after heavy rains,
and I wonder when these creeks
last ran. Does anyone make sure
that they run at least once a year
or could they be entirely dried up
and everyone assumes they must run
at another time of the year, a time
that's not now?

Notes on Spiders

I heard in a movie once
that spiders live on the north
side of their webs
to which I scoffed.

The spiders here face
away from trees, lights
and buildings, because
the insects stick to that side
with more space.

And the golden orb weaver
in the web on the backhoe's
neck faces the left of wherever
the backhoe is facing at the time.

In the Deep

The turquoise water is murky when we jump
off the boat to find the whale sharks in the deep,
but I have one goal when I hit the ocean:
to get to the spotter as quickly as I can
so I can see the whale shark a longer time.

This time, I cannot stay astride of the fish
for long, because my tired legs can't make
up the distance when it turned away from me,
still swimming easily but speeding out of sight.

Once I cannot see it or my fellow snorkelers
who are still managing to match the pace,
I grow hyperaware of how low visibility is
and I wonder if the whale shark was keeping
other creatures at bay, even though it eats
plankton, so I lift my head to locate the group
and use this new motivation to hurry back.

Later, someone will ask if we could see
the ocean floor while with the whale sharks
and I'll realize I never even thought to look.

Swimming with Whale Sharks

I jump off the marlin board, one hand on my mask
as my wetsuit jerks me up before my head goes under;
I flex my hips to make my flippers curl in the water
as I try to avoid the people jumping behind me
and head through nothing but turquoise with bubbles.
I peak my head up once to reorient myself on the spotter
and begin kicking harder to be the first to the fish.
The spotter slowly appears in the murky water,
swimming on his side to watch the whale shark
and I follow his gaze to the large spotted swimmer
moving lazily but quickly through the deep.
I fall into formation and attempt to stay astride
for as long as possible, while keeping the mandatory
distance from its side. Too soon, the spotter raises
his fist in the stop sign and we watch the whale shark
continue uninhibited until it disappears from sight.

Later, they'll tell us that must have been a juvenile,
because it seemed to be just two meters long.

The Shortest Day

Stepping outside in the morning, the corridor is dark
and only my memory keeps my feet steady as I
head down the sidewalk and onto the site to start.

Later, the sun slowly emerges from the horizon,
throwing a glow over the buildings and ponds
and the field of low shrubs that hide kangaroos
and house songbirds on the hot Summer days.

But this day isn't hot, it's mild and windy
and bright as any other until the sun sets
at its earliest for the last time this year,
and I know I can expect a day when I walk
outside and find the sun already shining.

Sick Nights

Sharp pain slams my brain
every time I shake with coughs,
shake with excess heat.

Roadkill

As we bound along the highway,
I can't help but study the things
strewn about one of the lanes
or on the red dirt of the shoulders.

Is it a blown out tires shredded
or the remains of a kangaroo?
Does a uniquely shaped rock
catch my attention or is it a cow
lying on its side in the grass?

But once I know that kangaroo
hooves stay straight in the air
and their bones are the same color
as the bright eucalyptus branches,
I avert my eyes, grimacing
with regret to my own curiosity.

Winter Chill

Tonight, I rush into the room, 

shivering from the crisp night

air on my mostly bare arms.

I grab my sweatshirt, pull

it over my head and huddle

into the meager warmth

it offers, trying to catch

my breath and the feeling

in my toes before I dare

brave the bathroom's cold

linoleum floor and window

that wasn't designed to close.

Flood Zones

The first time I notice the yellow signs
on the highway warning for a creek,
I expect the road to rise up for a bridge,
so I'm surprised when the road dips
with signs for a flood zone and tall
posts to indicate the depth of water
on the road. But there is no water.
Instead, the clustering of large trees
on either side of the road provide
a clue that a creek rain here recently,
even though it's just a smooth, treeless
path through the foliage that tells of rain.

A Cure for Drowsiness

Sitting on the couch,
I know I can fall asleep
sitting with my head
tipped against any cushion,
and I do not want
to struggle to my feet
to find my way to bed.

But once under the covers,
I no longer feel sleepy
as I toss about seeking
a more comfortable position.

I don't know if it's the cold
air from the walk back,
or the sharp mint tang
from the toothpaste,
or just a trick of the lights,
but I should investigate
this cure for drowsiness.

Yields 2 Dozen

The gas oven heats the room
even though I only open the door
in twenty-two minutes intervals.
The bag of buttercream frosting
lies on the table waiting to be used,
but I'm too impatient to wait
until the cupcakes are cool,
so the imperfect swirling dollops
melt into smoother edges
and slide toward the paper cups.
Sunflower oil speckles
my pants, a dash of flour
coats the speakers, and cake
batter leaves worn down mountains
on the counter as I hope for the best,
because one dozen doubled
was not supposed to yield fifty-three
cupcakes.

Afternoon in the Kitchen

Hot air melts icing
as I pipe swirls on cupcakes,
convert cups to grams.

A Need for Sleep

Day of broken things,
headaches, wrist pain,
exhaustion and stress,
sitting too long on the computer,
reformatting large spreadsheets,
pleading with various machines,
lots of ants biting my feet,
yesterday's cut burning,
the new oven's stinking self-clean,

and curling up on the couch,
flipping channels, and finding
my all-time favorite movie
just fifteen minutes in.

Buffet for Spiders

Every day, two jumping spiders roam
across the thin walls near the strip of black
plastic that mimics crown molding.
I don't bother them or try to harm them;
I don't consider destroying the crystalline
lines of webbing that cross over the sill
of the bathroom window, the opening
that wasn't designed to close, the one where
the small insects enter through the screen.

They feed themselves anyway.

Laundry Day

I hesitate when my fingers close over the slightly damp
socks and tee-shirts still hanging on the clothesline,
and I weigh the risks of leaving them a little longer
in the wind that grows stronger with impending rain.
The ants begin to bite my bare feet, making my decision
for me as I grab fists full of clothes and head for shelter.

Ordinary Dirt

As the air grows heavy with the promise of rain,
and the sky changes from a slate blue mottled
with clouds to a uniform chrome canopied
over the landscape, the characteristic red dust
looks like ordinary dirt-- compact, brown, heavy,
like I'm somewhere else in the world for the day,
somewhere I've been before and remember fondly.

A Night on the Couch

Sometimes, a nice night

is not going out for drinks,

enjoying a small cook-out,

staying up to play games,

or dancing to loud music.

Instead, it's managing to fit

three people on two recliners

to watch a sitcom marathon

until I have to be awoken

to drag myself off to bed.

Restroom Oddities

I make sure the gravel crunches under my boots
as I weave around the abandoned containers,
machinery, and structures hidden in the back.
The tall weeds grow in sporadic patches,
but I don't take the risk of a snake catching me
unaware of my surroundings and vulnerable
as I head to the trailer with the bathrooms.

Here, the men have more toilets and sinks
than the women, but still no line ever forms
outside the ladies one-holer on this farm.

After the Rain

The sky still looked gray and heavy
when the sun was supposed to rise
and throw goldenrod silk into the sky,
but the sharp wind didn't burn our skin
through our clothes this morning.

By midday, the sun broke out
from behind the thick drapes,
lighting up the land and our flesh
with a hint of warmth that slips
over our bodies like a whisper
that blows away in the gales.

June Rain

The wind blows open the doors,
sprays our faces with a cold mist
so fine it feels like sand sometimes.
The rain taps against the metal roof
and covers the windows with drops
to hide the gray landscape from view.

We pull our hoods tight as we leap
over puddles and scurry for shelter
as we welcome the first day of rain
in many months but curse our damp
socks and muddy pants hems.

The Chance of Rain

This morning, I looked at the line
of heavy gray clouds lining the north
end of the sky, and I felt the crisp,
heavy touch of the eastern breeze,
and I admitted that if it were anywhere
in the world other than Karratha,
I'd swear it was going to rain today.

An hour later, the sun broke through
the clouds, burned them away
with its bright mid-morning touch,
the wind calmed to the steady gales,
and I heard that tomorrow's forecast
is one hundred percent chance of rain.

The Moth

I didn't notice that heat had led
to an open the kitchen door
until the large moth flies passed my face
on its way to crash land on the carpet.
It walks a few steps before making
an abortive flight a few feet ahead.
It walks again.

I rise from the couch, cross over,
and let it climb onto my fingers,
but halfway to the door, it flies back
to the carpet and walks away again.
I cup my hands around it another time
and let it walk back onto my palms,
but this time, I shield it loosely.

Outside, the moth does not fly yet,
choosing instead to rush up my arm
and across my back before taking
to the sky, flying back toward the door.

I close the screen door behind me.

Board Games

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Time lulls after three
our hands and minds too idle.
Sometimes we play games.

Yellow-Throated Miner

Whenever I sit at the table on the patio,
the yellow-throated miner appears, one foot
dangling useless and heavy behind him
with each hop closer to the fallen food scraps,
because he cannot hunt as well as the others.

Or maybe I'm projecting my thoughts
onto a chirpy, mid-sized honeyeater.

My first week in Australia, a man told me
not to feed the yellow birds-- they're mean,
invasive, outcompete the other birds,
or at least scare them off of the territory.

But when I see that yellow foot twisted
and curled in an awkward and hindering
position, I can't help but hesitate
when I reach the last bit of my sandwich
and the other stronger, faster, louder
yellow-throated miners aren't around.

And maybe sometimes I intentionally
leave the crumbs on the emptying table
rather than sweeping them into the bin.

Friday Night Airplanes

On Friday nights, the planes take off
mere minutes apart, carrying laborers,
back to Perth, to their homes or holidays
for a week away from work demands.

We stay behind, watching the small
planes climb into the air in silence
or the almost unnoticed arrival
of another plane to join the queue
of passengers and pilots waiting to land,
the rumble reminding us of people
outside of the microcosm, the site,
the town, spreading their footprints.