Three Rings/Election Day

Fill blebs with fine black ballpoint —judicial hopefuls, port commissioners, gun control, preschool, bus routes— seal and sign and stamp and walk through misty grey to mailbox. My favorite method, punching through stiff card with sharp pin, more American than this new scrunching, solitary, at desk with pen, later, with silent dog—interested only in the scent of mailbox legs—pulling wide metal maw of blue, dropping my choices into credit payment and birthday wish obscurity.

How did it get there, grey car smashed into fence? All is quiet on walking past— air bags limp and grey at steering wheel and over glove compartment. No slumped or battered persons, only a silent empty car pointing, like a tourist, to face city skyline. I search for black brake skids. The road is wet, unmarked. Fence leans a little further toward view and cliff.

Humpback heading north, seeable from a city neighborhood, if you know where to look and how to tell her grey from the bay. She is alone, swimming our cold water. Has she left her pod or is she joining it? We don’t know if she is late or early, only that she swims by herself today.