by Laura Romeyn
Eyes attuned to what moves at our sides
in the high grass, we cross the marsh
in lines the land’s divided into. Tracks
set down for the railway, tracks
from us fixed in the tracts we cross.
A good spotter of loons and fox, I am told
I could be. If I cut out my trample,
what sounds will surface: jawbones
of heron at work in the nursery,
the hoarding of needles to soften a nest?
From lean-to trees to sandbanks
and shallows, we look out for
courting plumes outstretched
and obvious. The consummation of
a stalker’s hurtle down. I am here
for the reveal, I say, as what lies
alongside sidesteps us.
Published on July 5, 2019