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Here,
Moored by the soft calling turns Of a river now purposed by rain, We can linger in that patient lapse Between the miseries of drought And the sudden electricity of flood.
The Chinook-crazed bankies Hunker in closet cigarettes Debating spoon and roe, While the Copenhagen sages of Weymouth Share chit chat smiles of angst, And the oared helmsmen at High Rock, Ply the wide waters Revealed in the nervous dawn light.
And a distant figure Heaves arcing bright lines Through shadowy secret boils And long greasy slicks In their far-fetched reverie Of feathered hopes.
This is long removed From the life-gone-easy days of, Say, June, the routines of August, Or the sudden spell cast by afternoon light Through an April window Reminding us all things Eventually come back to this time.