Thrush Poetry Journal
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David L. White

waters

aspen leaves falling.    the grass is long.    matted.    uncut.    the river is close.   i can smell the 
watercress that knots in little gullies.    tangles with hemlock.    the wild mushrooms.   i feel the 
moss floor.   spongy, wet.    the sun is centered by sky.   but clouds overhang arched pines,     
arched fir.   this one road is our single van.     we won’t speak.    through forests of aspen, forests 
of fir.    i look out at the wide lake.   circled in a million strands of wet sea    grass    but there is 
no sea here.    the lake has hair, so it appears to me.    the slate of the face of the water holds 
another kingdom.    a crested bird of    huge   proportion sits like   a   king   atop a stump   that 
sticks out of the water .   the slate faced lake.    a crested bird yells at the implacable tablet.   the 
mouthless water.   the crested bird.   its neck is a fragile idea.   we won’t talk about this.    i stop 
to push the hair from my   forehead.    brush your  hair back from your face wet with  sudden  
rain.   my  hands  are wet   and hold     everything   i would say.





David L. White's poetry has appeared or is upcoming in Salamander, Paper Nautilus, Potomac Review, PRISM international, Southwestern American Literature and elsewhere. He currently teaches creative writing in Tempe, Arizona where he lives with his family.




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