Thunder, and the wind at my back from a storm
that passes by the granite shelf dropped by ancient ice
on an unnamed hummock in the river's long drench
maybe also for this - to cup our fire of pine cones and bark,
form a ledge for the tea of sweetgale simmering in a blue tin pot,
hold us steady against the lap of black and pewter waves
that glint at our feet.
Too much to demand, even on our knees.

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