Friday, January 8, 2016

January 8 -- Grace Marie Grafton

Coming into

The canyon for the first time, the brown
hill to the south with its gold undercolor
like nothing her old life could offer. She felt
uncertain then, of what she wanted or could
love. How to depart from forest and water she knew
she could count on. Kaleidoscopic green, turn
as she might, the leaves the vines the undergrowth
with its required mistiness in every degree. Here
the hills, even the ground squirrels, stark, ragged.
Flora, air so naked she can see the dry grass
blades separate from each other a mile away.
Hawk vision. Hawk heart rising into what
seems so simple. No untangle required.

Francis McComes, 1908

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