

There's
a
black snake
in the tall
grass, a crow in the
ribcage of a Willow tree, and
some of the old gods have been seen, reportedly, out
walking the cornrows at dusk, whispering about this and that; meanwhile, I'm just sitting
here, sipping a bitter tea brewed from cemetery
grass, making up stories about
the origins of
a Russian
nesting
doll
that
has
washed
ashore,
somehow, on
the muddy banks of
the mighty Gasconade River.

