northern
north
no worth
when compared to this
blood orange peeling sky
two calves
wrapped twice of deer hide
and once
covering the knees
sturdy as Corundum
hands like aged leather
a voice framed in confident humility
his grandfather’s birch-barked bucket sighs over the left shoulder
with two spile
tucked tightly in the pocket of his jean
“Tap Tap Tap,” says the young man
and from the bark of her skin
sap climbs out
The Word Mill 