so they look less like tombstones.So the riverbeds—dry now,just paths for deer to walk—seem less like ghosts.In our pockets: all the insults we carry,insults we place on the flat slab under the falls,or what used to be the falls when snow still felland March became a watersong of melting.For instance, keysto whatever dispossessions.Or the envelope declaring, “Final Notice,”those red wordsfading in the sun now,held in place with stones.A lapel pin—meaningless—“To commemorate 25 years of service.”And a necklace improvised from fishing line,sim cards, and rings…we leave our relics here,and coins the crows might find a reason for,and maybe the weightfeels lighter now,maybe there’s roomfor the wind to fit somewhere.It used to usher clouds overhead,and sometimes a few of them would open.First, birds arriving and lining up on branches.Then the rain.