Ceaseless.

I am the bird that hears the worm,

or, my cousin said, the pulse of a wound

that probes to the opposite side.

I have abandoned alcohol, cocaine,

the news, and outdoor prayer

as support systems.

How can you make a case for yourself

before an ocean of trees, or standing

waist-deep in the river? Or sitting

on the logjam with a pistol?

I reject oneness with bears.

She has two cubs and thinks she

owns the swamp I thought I bought.

I shoot once in the air to tell her

it's my turn at the logjam

for an hour's thought about nothing.

Perhaps that is oneness with bears.

I've decided to make up my mind

about nothing, to assume the water mask,

to finish my life disguised as a creek,

an eddy, joining at night the full,

sweet flow, to absorb the sky,

to swallow the heat and cold, the moon

and the stars, to swallow myself

in ceaseless flow.

Jim Harrison