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