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BY A LOST RIVERSIDE I David Wagoner The bedding stones, where we lay All summer at low water, Where we made our fires And our love through fall and winter And dreamed while gray-green Rainbow-making salmon Spawned as dose as our arms, Are gone now, carried downstream By the changed course of the river. Those earth-shapes on which we learned To keep our balance (walking Or lying down) have tumbled Deep and have vanished Side against smoothing side Where only water-breathers As cold as the current go To find the riverbed. We sit on the sheer bank. The stream the Indians called Sky reflects the sky Of a darkening evening. Love, remember: dry, Those stones were gray, but in rain Lay speckled like the eggs Of wild, bountiful, barely Imaginable birds In an enduring nest. T h e M is s o u r i Re v ie w ■ 7 ...


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