The title promises "primary sources," and the three short stanzas keep asking what that means. In the first, the internet is pictured as a line of caravans, all squeezed into a single wavering shadow. It's a clever image, but it feels thin, a shadow rather than the thing itself. The second stanza moves outdoors. The speaker looks at bird tracks and feels "a certain anxiety of influence," a playful borrowing of a phrase usually tied to writers worrying about their predecessors. Here the "writing" is left in the dirt or snow by birds, and the speaker seems a little humbled by it.
Then the poem turns physical. The speaker chews a bit of hardened cherry sap from a large burl. Taste and texture replace screens and symbols. The mood is quiet, wry, and curious. The poem suggests that real sources are things you can touch, track, and even eat.