Kayaking in
the maritime forest,
I lag behind the guide and see
the white egret, shadow-blue heron,
nutria’s black nose breaking
the surface, an arrow
pursued by its wake
The paddle does not exist except
by resting in its own cupped hand
Happiness also
a liminal state, a stillness full
of small things:
the submerged log, the shiver of grass
on one facet,
and the tiny fishes in its sphere
They are the size of this word:
fish
darting quicker than the time it takes
to see. But not faster
than joy
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 2.
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