By
midwinter
the once
tame creek
is a
narrow
river
dredging
ever
deeper
raising
steep
hillsides
on both
sides
  covered
with
foliage
shallowly
rooted.

Sasquatch clambers down to where the torrent's chant is too ancient to decipher.
Here the glistening backs of leaves are crepuscular as those archetypal
configurations of immediate, seemingly remembered recognition, whereby
we order and give general echo to our individual and inward
existence,
are related to, are a modulation from, the unspoken dream of

a Black Madonna with long cellulose fingers;
no, antlers with drops of water (tears?)
suspended on their tips.

    I turn into ("a memory
       of
)
                          
I turn
      into
(the present.")
           

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