At the confluence of the Beargrass and the Ohio
where a wild winter wind
blows
the leaves back up the oak tree
where the mallard and his mate huddle
beneath
a fallen sycamore
where eddies swirl and dark waves
kiss
the shore goodbye
There are no addresses.
No
street numbers to be marked on a map
and kept in a file cabinet at city hall
with a corresponding Owner’s name
Because
there are no Owners.
There are no claimants on the water
as it rolls from creek to river to ocean
and back again.
And
it surprised me today
as I thought about it
That no one had ever bought the Ohio outright.
Yet.
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