I have no memory of it.
I believe a river caught up with us
when we curved the foot of the mountain.
Men and women got off the bus to drink.
My father cupped his hands
and I gulped mouthfuls.
Snow patches led the way to the cool
black smoke of the woods. Over our heads
eagles played tag with the white sun.
The way we changed the valley
entering it like winter shadows.
I never dream of it
but I remember being watched
as I stood at the edge of water
stirring images with my foot.
“Inarticulate” first appeared in Salamander, Vol. 16, No. 1.