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In the cold heavy rain, through

its poor lens,

a woman

who might be a man

writes with a can of blue paint

large numbers

on the sides of beached whales -

even on the small one who is still

living, heaving

there next to its darkening mother

where the very air is a turnstile ...

I'm certain this woman is moved

as anyone would be -

her disciplines,

a warranted gift to us,

to business, to government,

and our military,

and still she exhibits care and patience

this further

talent for counting,

counting ...

For Tranströmer

Norman Dubie

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