We rest under a lone oak. Our tired eyes
follow the Sokolda’s narrow, scythe-like
curve—thin river whose genus we’d revise
to creek back home. The tree nests a grey shrike.
You call it a vagrant, too far north. Bass
break the water’s surface, large mouths snapping
at minnows. Touching the oak, our thoughts pass
to the ancient Bartek we saw, strapping
as a Cyclops, in the Świętokrzyyskies
near Kielce. You suddenly wince with pain,
recalling gnarled field of spruce carcasses
in the Karkonosze; curse acid rain.
I hold your chilled hand. Study the distant thaw
of pines. Whisper, “Like winter in Arkansas.”
Roger Armbrust
September 18, 2008
