From here, the town appears to hang over the road
                 and field, pueblo-like,
set into the face
of the hill as if mud-caked fingers and hands gently molded
                 the sloping roof, smoothed the point
of the steeple, as if the snow-
                 studded, ice-cracked Prescott
Field had risen on its heels and borne
the buildings from its sifting
                 core. In this paradoxal

light, all summer and winter, my face
                 is warm, my fingers iced, the half-melted river creeps
and transformed. Beneath

my sneakers—the mud, soft and pungent
mimics the gray
                 texture of the trees. Each time struggle takes me

to the edge of this path, sunlit, rough, footsteps
                 of water trickling
over mineral, I sit
on the long rocks and hold palms
                 to the air—

How easy to forget our eyes and our noses
                 our ears
                 our tongue.


This piece first appeared in the Sandy River Review.

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