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December 2008, vol 4 no 4

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Amy Whitcomb

 

Hooked

Fishermen line the creek through the campground. Bubbles surface and hooks dimple the water's smooth finish. Where sticks and sand slow it down, though, the stream takes on a matte finish and is quiet, not tumbling over itself. A brief hiccup of sound the mosquitoes quickly fill with their buzzing.

farewell-to-spring
a gulp of fresh air
then the plunge

I spend the day walking deep into the forest, following the creek upsteam, trying to walk off your visit. My thoughts eddy on our conversations. We listen but don't understand one another.

standing snags -
bird calls wobble
through the heat

The sun is sinking and the activity of the day is suspended but for the moths, which soon appear in profusion, clumsily weaving through brush and moonbeams to find each other. When you came here to collect them, you told me no one knows for certain why they come to light.

Much the same, I can't explain why I am attracted to you. But I'm hooked. I can't go back now. I will sleep outside at the creek's headwaters to the steady slip of water and flutter of wings. It's enough to have you inside as I tumble over myself.

skipping stones
sometimes we catch
a beat

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