The Bunkhouse Mirror
by Bernice Lewis
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While the others are still deep in canyon dreams
I rouse myself
and catch my first glimpse
of me
in the bunkhouse mirror
Hair windblown and matted with sleep
I open one eye cautiously
and see the makings
of self-portrait
Oversunned mud colored bandana
still rings my neck
A sideways crack
across the glass’s middle
shows one eye askew
and slightly larger
Outside
the creek burbles
the river sings
the wind whistles
the day breaks
Inside
I see myself in the bunkhouse mirror
As I long to look
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