Tess Gallagher
	Sruthlinn Spring Sent as children to gather watercress on the lake side of the abbey where water sprang from ground, its ice darkened charge of minerals with cleansing bite of watercress the water had riffled through on its way from darkness into light. A handful of oats thrown into a well at North Barroe reappeared two miles away at Sruthlinn -- proof of secret journeying. I drank its water before it reached the abbey, pulled 150 feet up from Eileen Frazier's well in 1968, the bright gong of it in the mouth. Yvonne and I made tea with it, talking poetry near Ballindoon graveyard in Tommy Flynn's caravan. The spring so rainless we think: "summer of '69" to savor the rarity -- spring of unstoppable sunshine, a stretch of goldfinch mornings. I walk past names of two I treasure on a quiet mission of again finding watercress, brushed by the cool underground of presence, and as mind will -- going in one place, coming out another.