I go so far away that from there I can hear
myself talking to someone and an echo like
when you turn away from a river and you can’t tell
if it’s the river right then or a sound
of the river echoing through you. I want
to go there and watch in the eddies near shore
the caught sticks turning, popping back,
then turning again, as if they would break in two
to shake free. I’m like snow at night in a field.
Most of the time you can’t see it; then it glistens.