I wanted to say, Mister

He pauses, this stranger
on my street;
stands at its head
and adjusts his tripod,
training his long lens
across the lagoon,
adjusting the focus
so the glow that is my home,
the mix of light and shadow
where I live,
just past that dock,
is in his sights.


That part of me that thinks it owns the view
that devotes its days to capturing every nuance of this place
cries out, in a small child's voice, Mine! Mine! No!
as if by clicking the shutter he could take it all away.

(I wanted to say, Mister,
this landscape and I have a relationship,
and I've spent hours befriending it,
enticing it into my camera,
sharing it with my friends.)

The wiser woman pauses in her walk,
slows her step and takes a breath;
takes time to feel her feet again,
looks down to ground
and sees the otter and her pup
scurrying across the mudflats,
just below his concentrated vision.

Hurry, I whisper, hurry!
Slither by, and I'll keep walking;
meet you on the other side for tea.
A sip for me, sand dollars for you,
and we'll share a gossipy snicker
about the view he missed...


(with thanks to Mary Oliver,  for her poem, "Winter and the Nuthatch")