Murmurs on the shore

Murmurs on the Shore

I stood at the bank of a salty river in May, and I said: “I’m coming in.”

I stood at the bank of a salty river in May, its many tongues
of white lashing the addle-minded stones while roots
of a dozen scarrèd trees simply sighed in the whip-wind.
I said to the froth and the foam that day, I said:

“I’m coming in, no matter!”

“Me, with all the fleshiness exposed. Don’t you see? I’m liable to dash
against a salt-slashed stone or maybe tumble into currents
that drag greater things to their diluted ends.
Nevermind it all, dammit — do you hear me? I’m coming!”

But all I heard were murmurs. The orchestra of
waters turbulent.

In the haze of that crusader’s vow, I stood stark against the shore,
and saw, facing me, its face maneuvering a chew, a deer.
It was docile, spotted on its side, not more than a year from birth.
Our eyes locked in between the gales, and I realized:

Fool! He, too, could hear the murmurs from the shore.

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