Friday, January 24, 2014

4966. CORMORANTS CALLING

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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