Night Poem, Oct. 12, 2017



Just after winter solstice the garfish raise from the dark depths


Lifting like the strains from a chorus of strings

Drawn to the lengthening light, subtle and weak

Then heading upstream, writhing like snakes.


This is the first note of spring

And no one on the riverbank to see it

The long, coarse fish slithering over rocks

How many?  Can there be that many?


Teeming, like the first creation

Making their own white shoal

Their scales primeval, their ragged tails red-tinged

As they form a horizontal line across the river

Just below the first dam

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