branta came that night. paddled right up beside her in a tree-trunk canoe, offering a name.

on windy days the sea-wives would be busy with the boats.

the woman brushed the wet sand from her dress. the pair walked on in silence

the woman walked south
along the high cliff path

i dreamed my name

i dreamed my mother

i dreamed i was a rotting log

the woman remembered
the swivel of shod hooves on the dusty road,
and running.

once there was a woman who lived alone