At dusk, on a narrow path by the Chapman River, trying to locate myself,

      I peel the skin from a honey-locust thorn, and watch black ants

move along a branch. The ants have made a dark stain on the bark

      from countless single-file journeyings. When I cut a line through them

with the thorn, they back up, spreading into each other like grey water.

      Kneeling in mud beside the river, counting the three-forked

prints of waterbirds, a sandfly with vertical stripes on its abdomen

      lands on my arm. I imagine a pair of herons high-stepping

through a cloud of midges to investigate a soft splash near a willow snag.

      I see a sand fly bloating itself on my blood, and stab myself

absent-mindedly with the thorn. Concentrating on the sting

      its poison makes, I watch the ants until it’s too dark to see

their feelers waving, place my ear above the bark, and listen to them

      collide, pause, move on. I locate myself. I give myself names:

waterbird, black ant, footprint, peeled thorn.