April 8

Well. The border          was right          there     a river    another source

a permeable frontier                      one                       without walls

a stone’s throw  to a different      country although I never            threw

               a stone  that far. Instead I rowed                across

threw down my                 anchor by the weed bed by the shore

               by the nesting birds          by the birds hiding

from me in the weeds and along the shore             by the fish

silent in the shallows       perhaps aware of the dark shadow of my boat

               by the changes

I had made by being there I rested quietly in the boat never putting one

               foot       out         onto      the         shore     of           another

country. Well. The border remains.