Our Exile

Our Exile
By Chris Davidson

After recent snows, heat’s come on,
mountains clear 50 miles away. 

Each day the snow a little less, each day
freeway noise a little less, and fewer planes: 

views from speed or from aloft so routine
capacity for wonder has rendered judgment.

I read a book as a child how to build
a sun visor out of leaves, to tap water

from certain trees, how to hide
in an open field. That could have been

yesterday, it could be tomorrow.
My job is inessential, most jobs are.

Borders between modes are blurring, my
exile, yours, has begun or is ending.

What are we doing my brothers and sisters?
Wolves have returned from the wilderness.

---

Chris Davidson
Poet

Photography by Daniel Bultedaob