His footprints are what’s left –
where salmon arrive in pink armies
and heron speak about the water,
how it might be slow this year.
Yellow rabbit runs,
and the sounds of roots:
leaning where he stood, thin pillars
for the sky. The river drifts beyond –
a grey wheel, waves lapping,
swamping his paw –
his print fills then empties,
hollowed out, dragged under to sink
like noise in the water.
I imagine his eyes –
bigger than mine, brown dappled sun,
Joe is a writer based in Manchester whose work has appeared in Crannog Magazine and The Manchester Review. He has poems forthcoming in The High Window and The Interpreter’s House. It is his dream to one day visit Alaska.