Mid-July afternoon, we climbed out of a silt-thick
Crater Lake: heavy to hold, thick to swallow,
sun-stroked and beaded, dirt-dappled, we lay
heart of Appalachia, eyes of Elms and Oaks,
we are knee-deep in the garden
planting.
Then I remembered our first collective breath,
the sound of wet bare feet on dry rocks, dirt clinging
to every hint of a hair, anonymous fish biting our toes
what we must look like to the underwater graceful cities:
unbalanced, lost, slipping fools, searching for solid footing.
Bipedal: we fall, barely stand.
What it must be like to navigate softly, rippling
through the water nest.