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calling :: james crews

by on December 10, 2014

If I say I see a heron lifting off
hours before dawn, I mean I see
a long, blue piece of me unraveling
from the dark, landing in the creek
to hunt a glint of fish, then taking it
writhing into the mouth silvered by
light some call the moon, but which
is merely a buffed steel cap barely
holding back the spill of summer sun.
The heron can already sense the water
warming up the way we know a word
spoken to a glass of liquid over time
will change its molecules: Call it holy
holy is what you will taste.


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