Not what I

Am used to

Thinking of

 

As life—and

More fragile—

Up from the

 

Riverbed, it

Trails braided

Fishing lines

 

From its body—

Seeing me,

It bursts away

 

Among trees.

My body

Quickens in

 

Front of my

Mind—I sit

Quiet, docked

 

To the ring

Of hills

Glaring—

 

Up from below,

Down from

Above—at me.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 33 Number 3, on page 25
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