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Gretchen Diemer

PlitviÄ?ka Lakes, Croatia I do not talk to anyone in this land of falling lakes, azure waterfalls. Narrow boardwalks, wood slats nailed down uneven and loose along the miles of trail. An old man falls at my feet and I hold out my hand to lift him up. This picture etched in the warm afternoon light. On the path, in the heat, sweat pools on the bridge of my nose. I do not swim in the forbidden waters. I lose sight of a flock of ducks launched out of the shallows over the bowed head of the fallen man resting where

emerald fish dart in plain view sudden splash, two stones pitched by invisible hands

At Villa Katja a woman told me where to walk. Here, she said, you will stroll in the shadows. I follow the path hidden from an ordinary day overrun with brick and mortar, buildings pockmarked by machine gun fire and tank blasts. Above the limestone waterfalls

sky the color of sapphire leaves burned by sun, in shadows the dark evening song

Under the walkways, under my feet, karst rivers drain into the limestone, water the trees, the somber travelers. Out of sight, bear, wolves, and lynx prowl. When water reaches hard rock, rivers emerge on the surface. In the heat, I lift my face to the sky, to shadows of fallen water

reflection of tree branch, dried grasses, a bird wing sinking deep in still green pools

late afternoon liturgy chants roll off the wing a voice, once silent rises

Profile for Michael Burwell

Cirque, Vol. 6 No. 2  

A Journal for the North Pacific Rim

Cirque, Vol. 6 No. 2  

A Journal for the North Pacific Rim

Profile for burwellm