On Those Mornings

Peter Engen

when the sun rolls itself over the ridge
and spills out into the coulee
sifting itself through the deer tick scalp of trees

the thread that connects
you as a child
and you now
is straightened out on the valley floor
and you can see the untangled line
between the two
pulled taut
from fingertip to fingertip
from eye to eye
from beating heart to beating heart

time is a trout stream
and we are both the water
and the rock

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