The walker heard
whispers under stones
He turned one over
and found underneath
a blue heron
assembling the sky
But he doesn’t remember
because he’s come late
to the river out
of a canyon where mist
obscures the ground
and the yellow window lamps
He pushes the clouds
aside and finds
the lightning
has painted darkness
At the riverline
he watches the water
strip salmon of their ancient red
and he discovers himself
rising behind the shoulders
of the bushes in a mirror
