From within the fissure I rise, old as anything.
The gravel beneath me slides. Blueback herring and eel, alewife and shad muscle in to my wide blue heart, and through. The smudged face of a wolf pools on my surface, and for that one instant I go blind.
Hemlock to either side. Nut trees. Laurel copses. The stony backs of snapping turtles on the shore, muskrat, shrew, and from the unlanterned forest, the bark of a fox, the skith skith skith of snakes over leaves, the prowl of a bobcat, and when it rains, the rain is its own kind of song, not just a drumming, but a lyric.
Were there language, I’d be my own lone letter.