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Sweep, a poem by Martin DeAgostino



Except for a heron
I was alone at the river
The water rippled
like crumpled foil
shiny and bright
I shuffled a little
watching the heron
watching the river
A small wake formed a V
around its long still legs
Ceaseless, insistent
it made me think of the sweep
and current of history
its turns and eddies
I saw Caesars vying for power
drone strikes and keening women
I saw the violence of men
toward women
I saw all of those things
but the heron saw none
It knew only the river
braided and flowing
that joins another
that joins another
that joins one more
that runs to the sea

Martin DeAgostino is a Midwest native who has lived in Indianapolis for 20 years, reading much and writing a little. It's been a good way to live.