I’m often wrong about
the true nature of things.
A turtle turned out to be a rock,
a sleeping dog a rotten stump.
I wish the world could provide
all that my mind imagines
though, once, as I was walking
through Washington State Park,
I saw, wrapped around a patch
of willow beside a stream,
a band of brown cloth that I took
for debris from a recent flood.
Trash, I thought, until the form
animated, raised a narrow head
and, hissing. shot into the water
faster than my eyes could follow.
Afterwards, it was as though
the burning bush had gone silent.
Chris Bullard lives in Philadelphia, PA. In 2022, Main Street Rag published his poetry chapbook, Florida Man, and Moonstone Press published his poetry chapbook, The Rainclouds of y. Finishing Line Press published his chapbook, Lungs, in April and his work appeared in Keystone: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania, this May.