poetry THE CONSERVATIONIST AT NIGHT by Patricia Caspers In the insomniac hours she hears the incantations of seers and shamans, and listens like a child at her parents’ bedroom door, but their voices are shuttered as if from the underside of her pillow or through the slow fog of another universe where the spectacled cormorant still dries its feathers on unmined rocks by a sea so clean he can see through his own black reflection to the passing sweet eel—maybe his afternoon catch— all the way to the sand- cradled bottom, where he will dive, finally, pulling her under.
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