The First Morning of Thanksgiving Week
Reflections on water migrate, I think
change,
even if the light is constant.
Silver patches broken only by the breeze, by
Anhinga,
the snake bird; slender neck’s reaching strokes.
My skin, bare shoulders, feels
translucent,
loose wild hair ideas brought me here.
On the far shore I see, a
splash,
something was breakfast.
A long distance, a chainsaw
dismembers,
the tree for communion.
November on the pond.
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