Here's the poem that won

Good Behavior / White Salmon



The transplant floats at the center of his eye
like a miniature of a city. Summer lightning
is and then deracinates. We can feel it
on our skin. All around us. Love
for the ground. Adherence to that love.
It makes me nervous. We walk out again
to the edge of the bluff. The power has been out
for hours. Townspeople call to one another
up and down the streets behind us casually enough
that this must happen often. What is electricity
exactly because there is strangely less resistance
without it; the winds page through. Quieter,
but also easier. Swifts take up the heated air
in long easy stitches. I lean over to start
a game of telephone. Some vacation, I say.
No kidding. So much for civilization.