the last of the last

my shoulder is still sore from throwing rocks into the water. my eyes quiet from all the bright blue. loving shadows. the yellow of falling leaves. shaking my head over lettie y pedro on the banks of the river. the gnarled roots disappearing deep. the fly fishers casting. all the millers about- the clams, the quartz, the one by one by one. the strange kerntown, alarms off at 5am, the winding roads up and in, the woosh of wind, the infinite trees, and all, all around.