a sumner day in winter
thinking, not thinking.
Salmon drawn year after year
spooning eggs in this open mouth
of fresh stream and salty tide--
but how do they find
this nest again?
Do they smell its spit
like wolves smell rabbits
in the snow
or an Eskimo spots a bear
in shades of white?
So many kinds of knowing
closed off to me
yet I love to wander,
a spirit among spirits--
my bed a mere
stopover
on the way
to another world.
.
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