Smokemount

When the light is on its last breath I go down
to the creek to hear it bubble and shimmer black.
Able to name it without seeing it – I’m leaning
into this new trust slowly, nature first.

Without sun, the currents are newly visible in inky jet and etch,
going every which way, not simply forward or down:
Watery folds like snakes, side winding into sand and gone.
The peeling back of dark skins, sinew corded over muscle,
networks wrapping bone.

It is here, in this quiet, lightless moment, that I recognize,
somewhere deep in my own current, milky black and ebbing,
I’ll be ok eventually.

(2019)

3 thoughts on “Smokemount

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