Turning the corner
but it was long ago
the pen feels funny
turning the corner at the
end of the parking lot
where the water
abruptly ends or
starts a marshy
spot long-growing
green a few small herons
waking maybe a dream
of clouds of silver fish
fading as they begin the long
stalk and the poem just sort of
ends there though I wanted
to talk about childhood homes
and the deep wound
of contentment we carry
on our hunts
if we’re lucky but
wait do you
hear that new
bird calling
other animals 
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