A Picture of Doan Brook

Out of winter sleep I scout the brook, too early by weeks
to photograph green, camera still dangling hopefully
from my shoulder. Halfway down in the gorge April muckers clay,
bends to groundwork that rises up with May, curls husks of burdock
in the laps of ironweed snarled by stage waters, trammels bend and decay,
dithering my mood in grades of grey. My presence in the woods
roams ahead like déjà vu, surprises the water strider, solitary and early too.
At the brink between us tumbled runes incline burled with fallow moss
soon nature’s green cloth. To the strider my truculent ghost
shifts out of the clouds, an apparition swooped from the surrounds
hunkering at its bank, sending it fleeing away but then darting back
riding the quick rilles and bumpy cascades, short of slipping until
lost among waves. Once motionless among trees, I taper from all presence
until worry-less and sure it moors back to sanctuary, a many-legged partner
floating on swirls of mercury. We interact like marionettes suspended from strings
snagged between our worlds, each caught in the gravity the other one wields.
We move in equipoise, balance over a brook supernatural with noise,
fill duets unforeseen with the illusory entangling of our beings,
so much it beggars the final act of tripping the shutter.
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