Sandhill cranes as we cross North Dakota.
A bid for the truth or just a poem?
Getting somewhere, Oh Lord,
or just rehearsing the long walk home?
Old lover, father and mother,
all of the holes I’ve gazed into:
I’m sorry, the light changed
and I never saw to the bottom of you.
I fear the fog like any hunter
accustomed to breath and clarity,
but when it descends, Oh Lord,
you lose your bearings and you are free.