by bobbymillerwriting

New Piece I did about the Georgian Bay and Lakeland Cemetery in Minneapolis

Through Lakes to the River


I was use to being given away

by my clumsiness or deft movement

to the attentions of animals.


When seeing

was accidental, stumbling

more than anything—I had never wished nor dreamt


that clicks of hooves against rock would echo out

to my ears and give away the fearful young buck,

to me.


He was anxious—

an adolescent for a drink and running

reeds to eat, to drape halfway out his mouth, to chew on in thought—


but I was full of knowing what he did not

and stalked forward to prove

my knowledge, and tell a story


that I had was in control. The small river

running into the Bay

laughed at my attempts


and where I had once known of him,

he then knew of me,

along the pebbled shore of the Georgian Bay—



For all the magic, those were…

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