A Thin Mist

The mind wanders. Early morning brings 
those who like to kick the gravel. I took an oath, once, 

but never again.  

The sun rises, barely. I strain to hear the sounds. The tune 
is familiar, but the voice falters, collides with itself
against the pond. A terrible repetition. No one should be 
listening to this. But he sings without care, arms outstretched, 

gathering the words.

He had the same name, but he was not the same person.  
He invited me in. There was a narrow opening.
What did I care.  

On the Martuwarra, an ancient woman
casts her net for the great sawfish.

SUSAN STILES

Susan Stiles lives in and writes about Croatia. Her poetry has appeared in such journals as The Lake, The Dalhousie Review, Innisfree, Storyscape, and Antiphon. More info, including her blog Letters from Rab, is at susan-stiles.com.