by Gideon O. Burton
Another thing, not smoke at all, not dry
Nor ashy, something close to water yet
Another thing, not clouds that nestle, set
In lumpy languor on the hillsides, high.
It is a brooding, patient thing, a sigh
These swaying redwoods breathe, a kind of wet
Companion, fingers dangling where they shed
A lacquer for the leaves. It doesn't fly
Away, but lingers in the early, late,
Then dissipates in silence as the trees
Emerge, ungraying, colored, thick with juice,
The grasses, ferns grown glassy in the great
Baptizing morning rite. The paws release,
The captive ground uncaptived, fragrant, loosed.
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