LUCIDUM

by Sam Olson

That first winter, I had to cross over
the creek to get to my classes. Closing
more on itself each morning, rime like oyster-
sheen glossed the creek-bottom. Before the veins
fused, a floe tipped and I glimpsed what world glows
beneath the ice, mirrored as the tissue
behind an elk or owl’s eye. Then snow

and the lexical tracks of otters curtained
that creek over– all winter, ice-shelves creaked
like boxcars braking into town, bowing
on rails. Some nights, before sleep, you turn
and say I saw a place. I ask where—
canoe, kayak, just a flash – and soon, you
tremble, traced under by hidden currents.

Sam Monroe Olson is a candidate for the MFA in Poetry at Oregon State University. Prior to undertaking the MFA, he taught environmental science, managed wilderness trail crews, and facilitated creative writing workshops in Montana's public and justice system schools. His poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Cutbank, Camas, Heartwood, and River Heron Review, among others.