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A cloud floats in a pool that turns like a slow clock,
helping these insects slide from birthing shucks.


Duns roil the surface, twitch and flutter,
a newborn or paralytic who believes
he can rise and walk again, if only the wind
would command him.


Halos drift around red and blue spots
that star the sides of trout, flares
in rushing water like tongues
of flame.


Heron loves the river cast in green, erratic light
broken over the sycamore’s body
that translates these watery scriptures
into parables of branch-shadow.


A fish wrings its tail, flings itself
toward the molting sky, mouth open
to a psalm of snared flies.


More than half the world is covered by water,
yet most of us are afraid of drowning.

For Ron Rash

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