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By Sheila Black
We come at the wrong time of year by a hair
or a week, and the brown birds flying onward,
out of reach. My son tilts his head.
By Nickole Brown
When I press my face to the painted box,
the sound is
not buzzing, is not
a mob of wings.
By Claire Hermann
God separated the light from the darkness,
but I have a light switch.
Once there was morning and evening,
but now someone has torn the heart out of a mountain,
By Kim Roberts
Hundreds of tiny fry
crowd the single tank,
churning the water milky.
The fry grow to parr
By Jane Hirshfield
As things grow rarer, they enter the ranges of counting.
Remain this many Siberian tigers,
that many African elephants. Three hundred red egrets.
By Ellen Kombiyil
We are on the plane now
crossing ocean. The pressurized
air is sweet not stale never
stale, the cabin set for
By Linda Hogan
I thank the eagle and Old Mother for this prayer
I send to earth and sky
and the sacred waters. I thank Old Mother
and the golden eagle, the two who taught me to pray
By Rigoberto González
Rigoberto González performs the poem "In the Village of Missing Sons" at the 2016 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Jan Beatty
Jan Beatty performs the poem "The Kindness" at the 2016 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Aaron Kreuter
We put in at the edge of the tailings pond,
our canoe loaded with gear and food
to take us on the four-day loop trip,
our nylon tent and stainless steel pots.