Wanting to Be

We all want to be something
We have never been.
The birds on telephone wires
Collect into a symphony.
You said you want to be
A geographer
Measuring the acres into fallow
Or alluvial, arid or swamp.
The rain falling softly
Wants the anger of sleet
In its teeth, while
A small stream slipping
Thickly from beneath a rock
Into the muck beside the pond
Dreams
Dreams of cataracts and rapids
And long swift passages
Between the beginnings
And ends of things.

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