My father teaches me landscape

here, where the land itself cannot decide

to which age it raises its stiff thumb.

I have a decision to make—

a few names to throw in the ocean.

We walk up the bare beach—

We look through a machine—

He says don’t forget

you are looking through a machine.

Your emotions will ruin it.

The hills beyond are almost bald—

a lone raven marks in an arc their curve

then lands still in a nest of waves.

Ravens, he says, will never appear in pairs.

I push the shutter down

let the machine realize

what I have learned,

as something scares the bird to flight.

Why must stories overlap?  I ask

but my father is already walking,

the machine ticking faster

than waves can count.

Iris Jamahl Dunkle teaches at Clarion University.  Her chapbook Inheritance was published by Finishing Line (2010).  Her poetry, creative nonfiction and scholarly articles have appeared in numerous publications including:  Fence, LinQ, Verse, Weave, Raft, Boxcar Poetry Review, Cleveland in Prose and Poetry, Eaden Water’s Press Home Anthology and The Squaw Valley Writers Review.