Not a confluence
of two rivers—the calmest
bay sandwiched between
two chops of land.

In her eyes, the front
porch always faces the water.
There ponds and marshes,
even a lagoon, keep the backyard
from drying up. There

no longer knows her footprints.
She walks nowhere
barefoot now. Trespasses
without leaving any ID.

She’s so invisible
she’s free to follow

the oxbow bending
road to its eventual dead end.
A foghorn begins to sound.