Archipelago

A paper wasp leans in,
building up only what the earth will take away.

Where the waterfalls go,
that is where the valley’s throat is hung with jewels.

A blue heron lopes into the air
chasing currents her ancestors told her were there.

A matador stamps into being
what he fears in silence.

Only the mountains are free to
leave their belongings by the sea.

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