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19752BB

Wakes It was probably some boat across the lake early this morning, too far away to be noticed, whose wake pulses now upon this shore. I hear the slap of waves rap the bank and look for some boat muttering home, uttering its beads behind. I find no boat and soon again the water’s slick-combed silver lines slip softly ashore, resting awhile. Some fisherman home for breakfast stirs his morning coffee as the ripples from his wake wish upon the shore. Fish feeding in the weeds feel its nudge, the loon rocks on its undulations, grasses close to shore wake in its sway, and writing at the water’s edge in the quiet hours before the day begins I wonder how my wake of words can chant upon another shore and startle some creature who has come to drink. Might he think it was the great blue heron hurtling his wide wings over the surface or the ragged wind dragging in white winter in its talons or something new he does not know? Does he wonder whether these waves began with someone who came to quench his thirst, or someone stamping his presence here, or someone else who has come to find unruffled water at day break to look for a world without warp? – Donna Brua “Poets of Boca Grande”


19752BB
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