No Borders

A Log There is a log.

Quiet in the woods.

Life on it, within it,

all around it. But we step over it

on our way elsewhere. We don't even think

about being that log. We want to be bright lights.

Stars. In the sky.

Another sun. Or, at least, an eagle.

Flying. Not at rest. Instead of that log

we try to pull ourselves

sheer force of will

into the sky. We need it.

Of course. That log. In memory of William Stafford