Squirrels/Not just squirrels

How many branches must cross
Between my eyes and the river’s tremble
To produce
A heron
A pike
A weasel
A painted turtle
How about
At least
A lost
Tribe of minnows
In the crystalline murk
Dodging and chasing
God knows what?

No, it’s twigs all the way down.
No kingfisher beak, just caught leaves and white stems.
My eyes get the message and close.

And so the brittle bursts
Of leaf litter
Sounding around me
Become enough
To feel stalked
Under shades of trees’ breath
By the special attention
Of the omnipresent
Watching to see if I’ll move with intention
Instead I settle deeper
Into stillness
And the willess desire
To dodge and chase
God knows what
For God knows
How long.


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