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Jayne Marek

October 29, 2012

A Dream

The Estuary Road

Just past a stump, gravel curved out to push the water away.  Dusk led the empty road

into blue wash.  Because in wet country the sky is one color, the shoreline made of weeds

and pebbles stretched and clenched to pierce and pool a darkness of varying shades.  A

disturbance, then. Sound of water cornering suddenly, gulping.  Not fright but alone.

Men can sit quiet evenings in cars with a door open if the dome light has been switched

off.    She had seen glimmering a six-set of plastic rings circling nothing.  A twelve-

foot-high dam slopes upward almost out of sight where trees wait in gray mist.  When

her vision swims uncertainly and she cannot focus there is turbulence to her left in the

river where it narrows.  White cuffs in water rise and sink.  A washing.  Black socks

rolling around each other and moving toward the opposite bank were four river otters

who knew she was there but played anyway.  Knowing her presence.  This time it is good

dark.  She has left the car forty yards away.  She is an hour in the night.  She is gone after

that.  Someone can be cruel and she had to decide.  In the mind of a salmon, home is up a

fish ladder.


Jayne Marek‘s writing has appeared in publications such as The Bend, Isthmus, The Occasional Reader, Wisconsin Academy Review, Utah English Journal, Re:Visions, Windless Orchard and in the anthology And Know This Place: Poetry of Indiana.  She also publishes academic articles and books about literary history, and one of her plays was performed in the Samuel French/Love Creek Festival in New York City. Her photography signals ambiguities about human perceptions of the natural world, portrayed in an abstract way.

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