1.
Scarves of mist weave
through pine. On the forest
floor, needles fallen through
the air like rain. In the valley,
the river cuts a line of liquid
mercury, branching in many
directions. There is that one
day when cattle turn
their heads and villagers
put their scythes down.
Perhaps it is the moment
when carts arrive
with tripods, transits,
theodolites. White flags
pinned to the earth, as if
that's all it takes.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
