Shannon Ongaro: Near Emigrant

I land on these words:

field poet.

This is my inheritance.

           

            a river and a way to notice

            how air moves over a sandy beach,

            to notice and fall in love with

            the curve of a river wave

            and also to know its wrath.

 

 

I swam to the bottom of this river and stayed there longer than I liked. I scrambled for breath and waited for release.

 

 

Up on the surface, we glide

and roam from bank to bank.

Mountain tops surround

like doting aunts and uncles.

 

 

Hungry and musty we saddled up to the bar at the Old Saloon, cameras rolling. A crossword and a cup of coffee would have been perfect.

 

 

But this is not my story

or at least

not just my story.

 

 

Later,

driftwood fires

agate hunting

faces in the clouds

            all cast spells.