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Waking, lying in bed, mind wandering: I could
become a hunter, walk into the woods, bearing
a gun, stalking deer. Or take up martial arts:
nearing death, learn to fight for my life, kill to live.
I am so tired of waiting I cry out for motion,
decision, action. The white creek, streaked
sky, the low roar of traffic, machinery which
wakes us at six, rigger, crane, backhoe: process,
upheaval. The new regime is in the details: save
me an inch of time, I'll pay you a year of stone.
Along the river, gunshots, the smell of meat.
One heron, hunched over itself like a bird of prey.
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