after “Sailboat In Dense Fog” by Wolf Kahn
I didn’t blame anyone.
I accepted the position; willingly
moved from the rhythmic, shifting
shores of northern Lake Huron
to the dry tedious fields of Indiana.
It was no one’s fault that I swapped
the herring gull’s bugle call
for the song of barn swallows.
Traded fog horns for tornado sirens,
telltales for corn tassels, white pines
for tulip poplars, Evinrude for Farmall.
Did I tell you I had no regrets?
Once, in the mist of early spring,
I turned my head slightly to the right,
squinted my eyes just so, the farmer
standing next to his concrete silo
resembled a boatswain preparing
to inspect a ship’s mainsail rigging.