we emerge from salty bodies soaked

in drudge. We gather substance, patching

our burst skin with moss, with fur.

 

Trees fell to build steps out of the bog 
Others climb to a feasible escape. 

Others lie down – stars drip

nectar on their still faces.  None are alone,

the whispers caught in the claws of

a squirrel scurry up a nearby tree and drop on

 

the head of someone who might look

up in time. Just to receive our thoughts in

pools of dew I seek our reflection, we

so often do

glisten.

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