Crossing the Line

Michael Mott

Where water turns from clockwise to counterclockwise and

the vine. Pure chance, also the laws the Traveller's Tree

obeys or dies. I write, crossing the line, as the sun's rays

striping the striped deck awning make a check of time. The sea

is ruled: birds, words, migrate upon their courses. Any

unseen equator, yes, but not the least degree of latitude.