Inventory. Spring. Amity.

One Copenhagen container; one crushed
San Pellegrino; one pair of red sneakers
damming an ephemeral stream; one candy
wrapper marsh marigold yellow; one woman
reading behind one cedar; one small circle
of charcoal and ash; one travel-sized mouthwash
in a bed of red pine needles; a cache of empty
Buds; broken glass; bottle caps scattered
with cobble; a tennis ball bobbing in water;
two girls carrying two armfuls of dead branches;
two boys stringing a duet of hammocks
near bridge six; rocks being skipped in three beats,
then four; sequential arched tunnels; double,
then triple sets of falls; algae floating
like long combed hair; glacial erratics marked
with lime green water lines; visitors
from Hawk Ridge perched on thin branches;
the sound of bird voice, the sound of rapids;
anemone and vetch; wildflowers with soft
white bells; a grove of birch, a grove of poplar.

Angie Mason lives in Duluth, Minnesota. Her poems have recently been published or are forthcoming in Bluestem, Nashville Review, and Tar River Poetry. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Minnesota State University, Mankato.