by Elsa Johnson

                            I’m picking serviceberries to the sound

of seeth                          that sea sound of the wind high

in the rigging of the trees                              hundreds of

miles from ocean             reminding me                  again

how    without water                           life could not exist

on this planet                       The sea flows through us all

even though we are far away          —            through our

salted blood     through the birds’ blood   (with whom I

share these berries)    even through the trees      There

are unsalted seas closer home                               choppy

(and dangerous)         that    —    though good to see   to

hear   —     do not stir the seeth in me                       I am   

picking berries to the sound of sea  :                       three

for the birds                 two for me                  Life is good