Poem by Indigo Moor • Photo by Richard Coy Aune

The pond is a knot
sweetly tied. We imagine
tadpoles to whales,
believing we are gods.

A sweltering of heat
bends us into willows.
Black-heart horseflies
our mortal enemies,

but not one of us
brave enough to escape
through the mirror
of brown shimmering.

We tote a summer’s
worth of sweat from one
bank to the other; we
mean to bring water. 

Somehow we never
remember. As evening
bakes in, thick and slow,
we sit on the ridge 

above the pond— black –
birds holding down a wire,
preaching day into night
with the clatter of our tongues.

Previously published in Tap-Root.

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