Two Consecutive Mornings

Fog. A Sherlock Holmes pea souper.

5:53 in the morning,

homeless woman with shaved head,

wearing striped pajamas, barefooted,

pirouettes in the parking lot of a grocery store

dancing in gray, suffused by a cloud,

lit up by blunted spotlights,

She’s singing while pirouetting,

some unintelligible tune,

perhaps a nursery rhyme

or “All Star” by Smashmouth.

She took a ballet class, clearly.

Someone taught her ballet long ago,

or maybe she learned on YouTube a week ago in her tent.

Next morning at 5:59

she rings an old ship’s bell

outside the barb wire fence of a boat repair shop.

Clangs and echoes of clangs ricochet everywhere,

blending with the sound of a new loader

at the log yard across Coos Bay,

sounding like Godzilla when the great lizard flattened Tokyo.

Ospreys give flight.

Gulls scatter.

Geese wake up.

Creatures in the sloughs camouflage themselves in the sedge and mud.

Minutes later she stands naked at the fish cleaning station,

hosing herself off,

singing, running fingers through hair that used to be.

A fishermen carries over three tuna he wants to filet in the fog,

hearing Godzilla,

but will just have to wait until she’s done singing in the shower.