by Andrew Hutto
The bear-whelps scratch on fir trees
and mourning doves eat safflower seeds.
To bracket out epoché between unseen
and seen-world.
There is no adieu.
Ice will not ornament the forest this winter,
there will be no way to cross the river.
The hot air in the morning will drive
all the martens to the stream but they will not
dip their paws into the boiling water.
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