All night, there has been
a running river of sound
that flows beneath
where I live out here.
And in the morning,
what of it, there is,
a softening muffle, in
sight, clings to the far
shore, and slides in over
the now quiet waters,
the riverine murmur
slows, and hangs there
reminding me to be
silent, and like the raven
stone, resting out there
fire in hand,
attention.
tsg | decatur island
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