Bait the trot-line hooks with chicken livers at midnight. Row along and listen mid-river, then whisper to the bait. Might catch a mud turtle or three by the next night. Might throw your paddles in a bonfire, and witness the sparks cascading like a thousand orange fish eyes across the shore camp.
A bat slouches on a willow snag. Its head swivels with lamplight, and its wings clamp into darkness, folding shadows into its belly fur. Smoke makes the bat bristle up and yawn. You picture your own tired face in a mirror, fuzzy, needing a shave, yawning, almost grimacing, and needing sleep for tomorrow.
The child's urn
glistens beside a rose bush
some frost is melting