I push past the banks of trees, the

Spindly trunks whose upward cargo

Barely seems worthy fruition

For what’s beneath, as topsoil

Makes way for sand pressed closer

To learn lessons from the water.


The sight is amplified to

A solitary scope: the

Far shore becomes the horizon,

The fleeting movement beneath

The surface the denizens

Of this kingdom of perception.


I’m reminded to heed the

Canonical horizon,

Acknowledge the screen of trees

As the interval curtain,

And with unprepared eyes see

It’s only an estuary.


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