Preface: I regularly watch the earthquakes in my area on the US Geological Survey site. Sometimes random swarms of little quakes happen in one spot. One day I had the idea of visiting a swarm's epicenter to sit and wait for them, and this is about my first attempt.
I'm hunting earthquakes in Del Valle Park.
My morning webcheck showed a telltale swarm:
Small, harmless quakes with symbols red-recent;
I drove out here to lie in wait for one.
This park is fine, a cool lake in a faulted valley
Oddly level amid oak-strewn walls of tilted sandstone.
Quiet Thursday, good for people here to fish;
Hikers, three-legged with sticks, arrive in a quiet group.
Me, I'm here to catch an earthquake.
A magpie in a tree, tuxedo crow with a blond beak, chuckles at my presence.
A prose mockingbird. "Crow-xedo," I chuckle back.
I can talk to birds while I wait. My game uses not brains but bones: just
Stay connected to the ground, ready for a subtle, gentle
Shudder. A tiny earthquake.
A microquake, part of an earthquake shower.
Unlike meteors these are unscheduled,
But thanks to "Recent earthquakes" I have a brand-new sport.
My, it's quiet. No, it isn't:
Birdsong is filling the infinite half-space of air,
Robins, blackbirds, crows, hawks,
Magpie still mocking my prose with odd utterances.
My subterranean half-space is silent so far.
The vibration I came for is too slow for hearing,
Too occasional for deliberate witness,
Too quiet to feel
Except perhaps today.
I'm trying to feel the deep places,
Faults and strata, strikes and dips,
Straining toward the hypocenter,
Hoping that my geophysical dreams disperse in
Trembling interruption.
Some crows have come down, now they tread the grass like micro dinosaurs.
I must stretch and walk somewhere too.
The way to move without missing an earthquake is to saunter,
Always firmly grounded.
Now I have returned with care to my shady bench.
Oh, it's a good day to be out in the habitat
Of earthquakes.
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