The air is so still. The river runs so fast
that friction heats the surface, shears off layers of mist
that float and billow in the windless air.
They may rise, drift, dissipate;
they may settle, coalesce, form a fogbank.
I stand with my heels on concrete, my toes on grass.
My stillness is in friction with passing time.
Johnson Creek’s outflow goes against the river’s current:
the zone where they meet is studded with whirlpools.
Nothing here tells me what direction to go,
nor how to reduce friction,
nor how to navigate turbulence—
just a song of small thunder from the Kellogg outfall
and river buoys ringing against the gathering dusk.
Books Available
Dervish Lions
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside
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