could fill the Great Lakes spill along the St. Lawrence swish in the brackish tidewater slip undistinguished into the sea I content myself picking berries these mornings the ritual distinguishing the ideal colour and drop of the drupes my fingers the berries soft as summer sunrise heavy with mist each berry a bead on a rosary a praise maybe one workday I’ll drive past the office next stop Niagara Falls where I will observe my ignorance slide over the scarp smash into the rocks and I will rejoice in the heavenward mist on the lids of my unseeing eyes mia burrus july 2020