I try to keep in mind 
that black flies are harbingers of warm air and cold, clean water
While they wriggle in my ears and eyelashes 

I can be who I think I am 
While a breeze blows its breath of relief

But in the stillness between
That warm air is too warm
The cold water seeps into a crack in my boot
And the flies are just harbingers of blood

I can only try to remember 
As often as I try to forget
That I am here.