From the "Union Pier" poems:

Small towns 

A squad of red-wing blackbirds

perched on wire fences squabbles

their short, harsh syllables.  Swallows

overhead chase insects.  Driving

through the back roads of small towns we

catch glimpses of abandoned gas

stations, rusting road restaurants, a self-

service vegetable stand:

Take your strawberries and leave the money in the basket. 

We trust you.

In South Haven, the soda fountain still

stands in the old department store dispensing

hot fudge sundaes and banana splits in clear

thick glass dishes, the aluminum stools covered

in red vinyl still spinning and swiveling, our legs

dangling way above the linoleum floor.   Life

is mostly slow here, mostly

good, but then --

life is always better

when you’re on vacation.  To the small harbor

we saunter after our sweet break.  A green

heron stands near the shore, unmoving, mulling

like a question, well-camouflaged among 

the deeply green weeds that stand up straight,

the cattails splitting their seams, grey shadows

drawing their cover over sailboats, the water,

the pier.  On the drive back I glimpse a llama

sitting in a field.  She’s far away

from her real home, I muse, and feel sorry for her.