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I come at sunset
to a solitary grassy spot
beside the grey river.
The winter wind blows hard,
lashing white foamed waves
against rocky shore.
I sit on a fallen tree
and gaze westward
across its swift current.
The river is a tangle
of drifting maple logs
and diving sea gulls.
I throw dry crusts
upon rocks and wood.
The sea gulls dive, screaming,
towards bits of bread.
If I should move next summer,
and never come here again,
I will carry this winter river away with me.
