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This year I am the river
I toss up dead branches on the red clay banks,
leaving skelatons for smaller prey to nest in or devour.
Even with ice in my veins, I move on,
a glossy black ribbion of life winding from town to town.
I pick up only what is given
and discard on my shores, tin cans, bits of plastic,
tree trunks and sometimes human bones.
1993