Sunday, February 4, 2018

At Shevlin Park

the Deschutes River
makes a turn across his own Burren
one he’s been carving out for centuries
slowly, with ice cracking tiny chunks of rock
slowly, chiseling with water flow
little pockets echoing duck quacks,
animal tracks, then water plants
and me, like a leaf here and gone
 to the vast Colombia

to the wide-open sea

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