Poetry · Poem (Translated From an Invented Floridian-Timucuan)
Fragment on the St. Johns River
An imagined survival of an early northern-interior landscape.
The owl speaks to the river-grass before the moon is fully round; the fish-crow knows the water's path.
We left our clay pots by the cove where the sweet-water meets the salt and the oak-galls are black.
Now the Spanish moss grows long like grey hair on the shoulders of an ancient, sleeping chief.