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Sunday, November 7, 2010

Moraine



Two streams flow opposite,
between them,
a mile long moraine,
     sliding pebbles and gravel.

The glacier found no gold,
     just a load of pan.

Years ago dozers came through,
     and hauled away the big pines that blew down.

Blueberries, and some young black spruce, are holding on.

I struggled up and over,
     to see if I could remember,
       which stream flowed east and which flowed west.

Sun down, sky my map, clouds forming,
     a symmetrical landscape,
     Only young conifers nearby.
       They don't know the way.

A white-throated sparrow sings.

Which side did I come up?
A few flies buzz my ear,
       I'm the biggest warm thing for miles.

Perhaps there's a moose, or bear,
A river got lost here beneath a mile of ice.
Now I am where it meandered,
       under a star-less sky.

I pile up ferns to pass the night.
     a soft green pillow, rich in spore to dream.
I pause that I might hear
     a rifle shot,
       from other lost men.

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