It is the same
long line reaching into a cutbank carved by current
exposing rock tangled with roots that feed a tree,
as if feeling were a place or like a fire that keeps
a home warm—words cast to float upon the surface—
imitations of love and life tied meticulously to draw
the wild from the deep and dark corners of a river.
Our communion
with clouds that rest upon the mountain peaks.
Callous hands busy with routine free the mind to fly
on the wings of gliding hawks that know our habits,
hunt the periphery of our presence and follow upstream
with curiosity to read our purpose, know our work—
as we survey our moment through their eyes.
drycrikjournal 