by Robert Tremmel

high above the river.

Slow September current
twists and coils
along the banks
of islands worn down
to compass needles.

In the distance
barges grind upstream
and all around him
bears like great, shaggy
mounds of earth
are moving, savoring
the air, searching
for the last dry berries
on thick tangles of vine.

Finn asks the bear
walking beside him, what
his name is, how long
he has been traveling
and where he is going
but all the bear will say
is My name
is your name, where
I am going is where
both of us are
and somewhere up ahead
there is a clearing
in the trees, a sky
full of eagles
and all around streams
crowded with fish
and neither one of us
has any need
to get there, and these
like all the other
questions you want to ask
make no sense.

by Robert Tremmel

knee deep in flowers
that have finally
in their patience
discovered the sun

and nine months after
the air and stones
still smell of smoke
and fire

tree trunks turned to charcoal
settle like bones
at the center
of a funeral pyre

tiny cones, not yet saints
gather themselves and wait
in hidden alcoves
above the roots.

by Carolyn Gelland

Fewer birdsongs now,
November into
December,
and those few
songs
not quite right —
young-of-the-year
baby birds
stammer
through
their lessons.
Then silence
until
spring
chalks
the doors.
Dream-flowers
chime.
Birds
toss
joy
around
like
confetti.

by Carolyn Gelland

Closing the door softly,
he leaves the engine running,
walks toward the bridge
and pulls the fog around him,
turns back a moment
to listen to the foghorns
hoarse with calling for the dawn.

Lips in the current
whisper.
Jump.