Anglers cannot be trusted,
the ones wading in the streams,
at least. Leaning into the current
makes a man think he can stand
squarely and render judgment
upon the deer, the kingfishers,
not remembering those he left
at home. All the trains are out
of sight now. The fish aren’t biting.
The man hikes into higher ground,
running from his reflection
in the swamp. Alone he cries,
battered and looking for crumbs.
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