We find. Grip and squeeze. Paint our faces dance
grow feathers and fly. Preoccupy. Become.
Obsessed. Forgotten.
Sound of saltwater licking dark stone,
bleached white roots and branch. Drift and sway.
Skin shed. Antlers dropped damp and spotted green.
Rusty spikes. Tin cans, porcelain shards and bottles.
That drawing on the wall. This poem.
These words. Beach-glass and broken shell strung
on fishing line or binder twine and worn
around the neck
for one meteor-showered moment.
Dancing on Frozen Beaver Ponds 