almost two years on I schedule time I meet her where the eagles glide the gulls cry and otters slip like mercury the inlet empties a river summoned by the moon shofar of gravity ultimate power play laying bare the clam beds and oysters filtering pain and impurity—and more pain the cutthroat gorge on chum fry airborne, defiant, then gone back to the abyss the river rushing to the Sound but my radius is cut. gravity un-chose me. I’m an aeronautical accident I say the word once then again, again, again muck on my boot slate sun in my eye and the gulls still cry mom—mom—mom there’s a way you say it that you’ll never say again
This article first appeared in Volume Thirteen, Issue Three of The Flyfish Journal.