A roughcut logging trail digs into underbrush climbs a hill breaks into a clearing fast on swampwater Hot wind maims scrub feints at bracken tussock, pickerel weed' hugging ditches Three hawks in tandem wheel are fibering air In brown murk: the silt planes down script of larva blistering mud Breath nears fever halts altogether as the surface creases the sun's core
& end to end a half mile the wind skids
Floodtide sinks the sandbar. Only waves faltering out of rhythm show where it was.
Currents gnaw debris free from banks for burial in the black mud of the marsh.
Idling in the pentacle of an old army tent I would have the green heat speak of why it flows so close under the earth, making my shadow blur.
But the wind rising is enough, all afternoon it has me
thinking what a wind thinks miles past land.
Aprendizaje paso a paso, grabaciones de voz para compartir y recordatorios de repaso.
