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



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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