Across the bay, under its heavy Northwest sky,
horizon strips of deep light leaving the day.
The man on the shore stands in his own weather,
recalled by the light’s low angle to the same sky,
the day years ago they scatter his father’s ashes
across the Platte. He tries to figure how far today is
from the solstice. His watch shows two days to go,
and 4:06. In another fifty-four minutes the rates
will go down. He turns back home, sure beyond doubt:
I ought to call father. It’s time I called father.

