My skin is flecked with geese traveling. I drag a magnet across the dirt and its patterns carve the shape of an aster. Did you pick them this year or leave the bees to feast? I turn my belly towards the sun. I boil water for tea. I bury the fire with sand and it melts a patch in the snow. In spring, it is a circle of water. And the deer will come here and drink. We're still early in the process of translating song from the waves of multi-hued chop, divining the negative pressure of perigean tide; we're still searching for gifts in the hydraulic press of sunset. |
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