“By the waters of Babylon we lay down and wept as we remembered Zion”
Down the little White Salmon, a body of fog exactly wide
as the river is floating.
Crows on both sides cawing to each other
choking and gargling the language of crows.
In my right hand a little wind circumambulates five swollen hillocks of knuckle bone
where fires have been built.
That’s how I feel it.
That’s how I know the sky has come down to the riverbed
where white egrets are murmuring,
and their murmuring is a twin to the sound of currents.
I am only a white man walking by a green river in a modest fog.
If there is meaning here, I leave it to debating crows
but my left hand, the color of wonder bread, is open
offering a flow of air across the palm and back to sky.
The One without a name who takes the shape of water and of air
is also present in fire.