WATERMARK

Crows dig in the cottonwoods
while tall millet still stands
on the river bank. Everything
hurts. Dreams have hooks,
they pull me, though the sun
is high and shines on this page.

When we turn back and I see
my house at the end of this long
block, it seems far. The neighbors’
house is roofed and shingled; workers
move inside. Someone tells me I write
about coyotes and sighs. I know one

well, and I know the other is not
to be trusted. Two squirrels share
the seed I scattered for birds. Rose
cane shadows stripe the wings
of the bronze eagle. Shall we cross
this water by bridge, or by boat?