MOCK RIVER
Another morning's landlocked story.
Another morning abiding the hook and the line.
The jays have been up for hours, scouting
the beach for salmon, remnants mostly,
already stripped and scattered by the bears.
Meanwhile, clouds build to a rubber erasure.
The trees slough off their last dead leaves.
Jesus, it's tiring, dog whine and dénouement,
tongue-sweeper, pulling its own weight under.
But you don't give up. You log in: Waded out.
Plumbed the shallows for a turned pebble,
one syllable's radiant spawn.
—Anne Coray
____
from Bone Strings (Scarlet Tanager Books)