Perched in the crook of a tree,

in a chiaroscuro of branches and gap,

a barefoot kid

grips her schoolbook

Pages turned against the spine

into the cup of her hand

It is quiet up there,

so quiet I can almost hear her lips

echo the lesson

below. The rocks

beneath the running stream

ridged in light

in their own way alive

and breathing

Like a strain of violin

on an un-peopled lane

still heard

many years later

The hook and glimmer

that keeps me here

Life summoned from the depths

Mnemonic grit

that spurs the oyster’s



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