I dropped through the clouds,
caught a taxi to the foot of his mountain,
and followed the deer tracks.
Jim’s cabin was a smudge
on the side of the mountain. A bromeliad
clinging to a cliff, feeding off air.
Ages ago, we had shared
a passion for poetry, rice wine
and Japanese girls.
After some warm sake Jim told me
his marriage had come apart in his hands
like an overworked poem.
Ai had flown off to Alaska,
taking the songbirds, the kids,
and his beloved Basho books.
We kept drinking, our hearts
growing spongy toasting
old professors and Beatles’ songs.
What do you do? I asked.
“I write, drink and watch for smoke,
alerting the fire rangers.”
We stayed up all night
listening to the coyotes yip.
The next morning Jim walked me
down the mountain, waved goodbye
as the mist closed around him.
By the time I flew home
the mountain, three hours away,
had become an island
on the other side of the world
and for all its beauty, one
already slipping beneath the waves
—a destination, like my youth,
that I would never see again.
