Scott Waters lives in Oakland, California with his wife and son.  He graduated with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University.  Scott has published previously in The Blue Nib, The Pacific Review, Loch Raven Review, Adelaide, Better Than Starbucks, A New Ulster, Selcouth Station, The Courtship of Winds, Scarlet Leaf Review, The Pangolin Review, Ink in Thirds, and many other journals.

BOULDER SITTING

Buffalo clouds stampede west to east

sitting on the back stairs
on the ledge of a continent

hummingbirds zip
from pomegranate blossoms
to Mexican sage to oleander
to plum branch

one hovers directly above my head
eyeing my bald scalp

I imagine tiny feet
sharp as twigs
gripping the thin layer of skin
grown over bone
like moss on a boulder

before darting away
to hitch a ride

on a herd of clouds

NOTHING WAS DELIVERED

Through this morning’s window
the horizon of hills
is a powder blue pencil
lying at the base
of a grey wall

the downhill neighbor’s umbrella
is a circle of
purple and red ripples
on white water

this side of the window—
the collapsed navy blue chair
in the corner
is a garbage can
covered with pecking pigeons

and the sigh
from the other room

is the end of my deliverance.

UNCAGED

Two brown pelicans flap face-first into the wind
waves roll below in choppy white crests
shredded crepe paper clouds drift overhead

the trail threads between glittering bay
and potholed road with semi-trucks
hauling away containers fresh from Asia
smoke rising like dragons from exhaust pipes

I turn my face to the gusting marine breeze
let down my mask for a minute
breathe the salted air deep into my lungs
feel their rusty hinges groan and crackle
with the unfamiliar lubricant of fresh air

five years ago my Subaru
rode 20,000 miles across the waves
in one of those colorful containers
wheels squeaking on the cold damp floor
3,000 pounds of steel, aluminum,
copper, glass and rubber
tilting and straining against chains
wrapped around greasy axles

Now—
mask securely back on my face
tires humming on pavement
engine purring like an uncaged tiger

I drive toward home
and whatever the future will be.