Wye
River, year in year out, pleasure of the tangible, the intensely visible. Sun
rises this April to burnt-down hills, stripes of damaged trees. Fire opens up
the intangible, reminds us of invisible life, old paths and fossils. Skyline’s no
longer treetops but their bases. Air flows where canopy, understorey, and
ground cover vied for light. Wye River, waves in and out, measure of tidal
force, oversees invisible commonwealths. We know the octopus is out there, not
that we’ve never seen them, furling unfurling. Once or twice we’ve seen whales
surface, or was it just changing weather and white caps?
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