“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
Crows on opposite sides cawing at each other,
choking and gargling in 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 when the sky has come down to the riverbed
where white egrets are murmuring.
The sound of 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.
My left hand, the color of wonder bread, remains open,
offering a flow of air across the palm, back to sky.
The One without a name who takes the shape of water and of air
is also present in fire.