Inventory. Spring. Amity.
by Angie Mason
One Copenhagen container; one crushed
San Pellegrino; one pair of red sneakers
damming an ephemeral stream; one candy
wrapper marsh marigold yellow; one woman
reading behind one cedar; one small circle
of charcoal and ash; one travel-sized mouthwash
in a bed of red pine needles; a cache of empty
Buds; broken glass; bottle caps scattered
with cobble; a tennis ball bobbing in water;
two girls carrying two armfuls of dead branches;
two boys stringing a duet of hammocks
near bridge six; rocks being skipped in three beats,
then four; sequential arched tunnels; double,
then triple sets of falls; algae floating
like long combed hair; glacial erratics marked
with lime green water lines; visitors
from Hawk Ridge perched on thin branches;
the sound of bird voice, the sound of rapids;
anemone and vetch; wildflowers with soft
white bells; a grove of birch, a grove of poplar.
