After Fifteen Years Have Turned

After Fifteen Years Have Turned

The throaty raven speaks
at first in dreams and when
he comes, speaking in tongues,
he will not translate.

We slide from sleep.
The frieze of sound begins
to render.

Ankle deep in moss and fog,
we do not pick the deadly amanita.
Risk red tide, but avoid its clammy
breath, fear its tingling lips.

Something good will happen
today, she says.

Much stays secret, between us.

Like the balance point
of cormorants, their bent necks
angling like forks.

Each logwood drift turns back
the years we first camped
along this curve of time.

Here’s a quiet place to think
why insects make funnel patterns
in the dust.

We know how such questions
are a trap to fall in,
raveling up in words.
And why the seals clap awake
the heron-shrouded night.

More by far is secret.

Like the thrush’s privacy.
Swainson’s, shy of sharing,
too mute for ears and gone
if scrutinized so closely.

From such notes, if taken well,
the next step might be up
the scale to clearing.

Morning fog moving
off the distant straits.

-T.C.Buell

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