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by Leisha Douglas
Our children, raised on farms of water and loam, are dumped back here.
Sluggish, clumsy, they lack the language of stream.
We teach them to decipher real from false fly,
how water bugs skate, caterpillars writhe.
Elders tell of a river where bears and wolves came to drink.
Now: murk. Foul turbulence.
Sequestered in shadows of rocks and fallen trees,
we dare not risk a view of sky.
Long ago, when we gamboled in spring,
men sang songs of praise and hope.
We were emissaries of the moon,
wore her shimmer on our skin.