The camera holds more and less
Than I see on September mudflats.
It holds the count of gulls and crows
Scattered on the light-scattered film
Of water trickling back toward
Shore as the afternoon tide turns.
It holds the sky and clouds. It holds
All of this at once—still—without
Discernment or pity. It holds,
Just beyond the tideline, in shallows
Slowly deepening with distant
Ice melt, the curve of the heron’s neck.
But it knows nothing of intent,
Of fear and hunger. Violence.