To This

A wood thrush flutes at forest’s edge; moose
stands lordly over grass; and high in birches
twigs brush shyly green. Somewhere children
watch the ground. Mothers twist veils to rope,
and deep in earth, an oily shadow seeps. Though
no one asks, I choose them all: thrush, moose,
birch, new leaves painting sky. I choose children
afraid to look, mothers hanging by jet threads.
I choose this clearing and the shadow’s path.

Patricia Lee Lewis

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