she is floating in deviation, in a boat downriver amongst and betwixt the blades
there is no sound here, only shadow and sun. observing wide pockets of shade
and slivered carrels of bright light. in the glare, she follows the cloud maps
per contra in the dark she cannot find her compass skidding about the floorboards
climbing awkwardly from the craft to scrunch the luxury of grass beneath bare feet
peering quizzically into a forest, now being so far outside it. it is not more beautiful
than the glades and the fields and the dirt paths and the pebbles and the ants
pro forma she walks forward and wherever her foot lands she sees she makes a print
(she survives this journey via deus ex machina)
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mary june brown 