CORMORANTS CALLING
Sitting on pilings at the end of the wharf, these
fine birds just dip to disappear. Looking alone,
like me, they seethe with the frisson of water.
-
I want to dip down with them, travel to the
mud at the base of the river, slide like some
easy-lined fish past swamp-grass and moment.
-
But I am the other - that secondary creature
of two legs and a hand. A mind running abstract
over the land. Not being of water, what else can
I do? Retell this story, in passing, to you.
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