Just beyond the mouth of the river

where silt shifts to krill, a pod of orcas

 

drift through. No, that’s not right,

that’s not what I saw. Just beyond

 

the treeline a pair of antlers over ten

feet tall, a moose, no, two moose

 

and a calf, split the reeds toward

the lake’s shore. No, that’s not it

 

either; I’ve never seen that. I have

seen, though, a school of tarpon

 

breach the Gulf’s surface, their

iridescent scales beneath the sun

 

like aluminum foil over a Fourth

of July fruit platter. Take it from me,

 

please, my longing. The difference

between sentiment and sentimentality

 

is half of everything I’ll ever own. Just

outside my window is a hollow stump.

 

Last spring a beehive formed deep

in its cavity. Faces here are transparent.

 

The heart too. The emptiness I hold

is universal, a condition with no cure.