A fight to the death—the eel speared, Writhing, two crows, tactical usurpers, Hungry, greedy, sneaky, watched the eel flip, Dark, wet from the river.
MOUNTAIN SORREL Oh the myrtle so bright. The eyeslip, the bee. Still and know. And how sad I am, and for days on end.
You’re so light, sister bird-foot, you gust and whistle up hill and down the side I can’t quite see, where the ridges resurrect the