Without knowing, we go looking
for something not there. Mushroom hunting
in the boroughs under the trees,
in leaf & lichen dropped & decaying.
Ferns & fern-dust, dark mineral earth
gone for days without sun, bullet casings
dropped by a hunter who stood here
in thick-treaded boots, a heavy cotton bag
dropped & then re-slung. A knife
clutched & then discarded, bright silver
on the moss. Kinglet with its flash
of red. Chestnut shells long empty.
Hunched & waiting out a rainstorm, the geese
tuck their heads on the pond, fold
into their oil. Brown blackberry canes
& the boards of the hunting blind rough
with lichen, slick with rain. Summer tucked
like a seed between teeth.
Anna Tomlinson grew up on Sauvie Island, Oregon and now lives in Salt Lake City. She recently finished her MFA at the University of Virginia, where she taught poetry, first year writing, and summer transition classes. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in The Adroit Journal, Frontier Poetry, Salt Hill Journal, Tupelo Quarterly, Cimarron Review, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, and minnesota review, among others.
