a bit of blogetry in this almost springtime season...
At the confluence of the Beargrass and the
where a wild winter wind
blows the leaves back up the oak tree,
Where the mallard and his mate huddle
beneath a fallen sycamore,
Where eddies swirl and dark waves
kiss the shore goodbye,
There are no addresses.
and kept in a file cabinet at city hall
with a corresponding Owner’s name
Because there are no Owners.
There are no claimants on the water
as it rolls from creek to river to ocean
and back again.
And it surprised me today
as I thought about it,
That no one had ever bought the