Poetry and Poetics
The river slid by in a mist like a mind unreeling
and clouds passed, thinning as they went.
Before the hour was over, they had disappeared.
Noon erased shadows from the banks
and out of the woods two
carrying their vulnerable bodies with such dignity.
In the late afternoon, hunters came also,
death in their rifles.
We are like them, whether or not we want to be—
intense and after what we could leave alone.
As night approached, the river darkened—
wild silver to
The hunters strapped down their take, stashed their guns
in their pickups and vanished. The bottom stones also
beneath the current.
The oiled tarp of night covered everything.
© by Patricia
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