Summer into Autumn

It’s been an interesting week. Today is the last Sunday of Summer, meteorologically apeaking. Meteorologists begin Falling into Autumn on September 1. With luck, today’s Heat Advisory and tomorrow’s Excessive Heat Warning will end Summer’s heat and humidity attacks.

On Wednesday, we enjoyed a visit to our backyard by four sandhill cranes, two adults and two grown colts it looked like. They pecked their way around the yard and the wet spot behind the house. I can only hope they nailed a few moles and/or voles. As the cranes moved toward the North, a small flock of wild turkey hens entered from the South. Everyone pretty much ignored each other and kept their distance. Would that we humans were better at such behavior.

[ONCE AGAIN BLOGGER IS MALFUNCTIONING FOR ADDING AN IMAGE!!!]

Echinocystis lobata (Wild Cucumber)

Photo by J. Harrington

Midweek, I discovered, and removed, a red squirrel’s nest from the deck rafters. I spotted it while checking to see if the bat I had chased out of the house Wednesday morning early had tried to settle under the deck. No signs of the bat, and I set a live trap for the squirrel. A couple of days later, s/he was caught and transported several miles away and released into a new home territory, we hope.

Why are oak leaves and snowflakes alike in Minnesota? There’s only on month of the year in which Minnesota hasn’t recorded a snowfall and, I suspect, there’s but one, maybe two, months when oak trees aren’t shedding their leaves. They’ve started coming down this week, again. Tamaracks are turning golden, wild cucumber is blossoming. More trees are showing more colors.

Our son has had successful surgery on his broken arm. Daughter Person took possession of a new, to her, horse on Thursday. That pleases the daylights out of her. There seems to be something in the air, again, that has the dogs licking their paws, and me blowing my nose. Summer has just about worn out its welcome as our state fair begins.

I’m guessing you’ve heard by now that our Governor, Tim Walz, is the Democratic candidate for Vice President, with Kamala Harris nominated for President. We have an opportunity to do much worse. I truly hope we don’t take it, not so much for my sake as for the lives of our children and grandchildren unto the seventh generation. VOTE BLUE! please.

Autumn

Alice Cary
1820 – 1871

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips
   The days, as though the sunset gates they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips
   And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud,

Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,
   And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves,
   And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

The wind, whose tender whisper in the May
   Set all the young blooms listening through th’ grove,
Sits rustling in the faded boughs to-day
   And makes his cold and unsuccessful love.

The rose has taken off her tire of red—
   The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost,
And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her head
   Against earth’s chilly bosom, witched with frost.

The robin, that was busy all the June,
   Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough,
Catching our hearts up in his golden tune,
   Has given place to the brown cricket now.

The very cock crows lonesomely at morn—
   Each flag and fern the shrinking stream divides—
Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn
   Creep to their strawy sheds with nettled sides.

Shut up the door: who loves me must not look
   Upon the withered world, but haste to bring
His lighted candle, and his story-book,
   And live with me the poetry of Spring.

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As Summer fades, Autumn glows emerge

Twice this past week I’ve seen a flock of four or five sandhill cranes standing on a road. A few days ago they were on our paved road, with wetlands on either side. Yesterday, Saturday, they were standing just before a curve on a gravel road I was traveling to pick up our weekly community supported agriculture [CDA] share. I’ve never before seen live cranes on a road. No idea what’s going on.

Yesterday’s CSA share included:

Tomatoes Red Leaf or Simpson lettuce Broccoli  Cantaloupe Sweet Corn  Green Pepper

This week past also brought several deer sightings. Mid-week, one of this year’s fawns stood in the middle of a neighbor’s driveway and stared at the dogs and me as we walked past. It was still there on our return a few minutes later, but had had enough of visiting and took off into the bushes. On yesterday’s CSA trip, does and fawns were scattered in several fields and at the curve in the gravel road just past where the cranes had been.

August: full moon

Photo by J. Harrington

Our early morning dog walking this morning brought a view of one of the most gorgeous orange “full” moons I’ve seen in a long time. Technically the full moon arrives tomorrow and I’m looking forward to a repeat performance.

More and more trees are showing color changes in their leaves. Two maple trees in widely different locations have turned all red, almost crimson. On the other hand, temperatures have crept back to seasonable and the humidity is uncomfortable. There was a recent report [TPT Almanac, 8/16/24] that so far, this has been the second wettest year on record at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport. It appears to be a tossup whether we’ll top the all time annual record. Stay tuned.

Three Songs at the End of Summer

Jane Kenyon
1947 – 1995

A second crop of hay lies cut   
and turned. Five gleaming crows   
search and peck between the rows.
They make a low, companionable squawk,   
and like midwives and undertakers   
possess a weird authority.

Crickets leap from the stubble,   
parting before me like the Red Sea.   
The garden sprawls and spoils.

Across the lake the campers have learned   
to water-ski. They have, or they haven’t.   
Sounds of the instructor’s megaphone   
suffuse the hazy air. “Relax! Relax!”

Cloud shadows rush over drying hay,   
fences, dusty lane, and railroad ravine.   
The first yellowing fronds of goldenrod   
brighten the margins of the woods.

Schoolbooks, carpools, pleated skirts;   
water, silver-still, and a vee of geese.

*

The cicada’s dry monotony breaks   
over me. The days are bright   
and free, bright and free.

Then why did I cry today   
for an hour, with my whole   
body, the way babies cry?

*

A white, indifferent morning sky,   
and a crow, hectoring from its nest   
high in the hemlock, a nest as big   
as a laundry basket....
                     In my childhood   
I stood under a dripping oak,
while autumnal fog eddied around my feet,   
waiting for the school bus
with a dread that took my breath away.

The damp dirt road gave off   
this same complex organic scent.

I had the new books—words, numbers,   
and operations with numbers I did not   
comprehend—and crayons, unspoiled   
by use, in a blue canvas satchel
with red leather straps.

Spruce, inadequate, and alien   
I stood at the side of the road.   
It was the only life I had.

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At Autumn’s door step

A few days ago we started to notice leaves had begun to change color. First were the sumac leaves in red. Plus, there were hints of color in a large deciduous tree on the north side of county highway 36 ay the Sunrise river bridge.. Then, on Friday, we noticed color in a clump of maples as we were driving home from Taylors Falls. We’ve had color change this early in other years but it does go nicely with the cooler temperatures we’ve enjoyed for the past week or so.

even some local maples are beginning to turn

Photo by J. Harrington

Hummingbirds continue to chase one another away from the sugar water feeders. According to our traps, more mice are trying to move into the lower level and the garage. Although we see sandhill cranes in the fields from time to time, they’re in clusters of two, three or four. No signs yet of major flocks forming for migration.

A boule of sourdough just came out of the oven. The last loaf I baked had, to my taste, almost no flavor, so I reformulated the starter using about half whole wheat flour and the other half bread flour. I’ll know, shortly after this is posted, if the flavor has been enhanced or if more fiddling is called for. We’ll report in our next posting.

I have made some progress on one of the other writing projects I’m starting, and Sunday seems like a good day to post if I decide to shift to a weekly blog schedule. Blogger aappears to have made whatever adjustments were needed to allow me to again include images in these posts so we’ll just play it by ear.

Fall Song

by Mary Oliver

Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time's measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay - how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures. 

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Seasonal adjustments

According to our copy of the Minnesota Weather Guide, the normal high temperature this week is 82℉ and next week it’s 81℉. The ten-day forecast doesn’t have a high of 80℉ or more. Early Autumn on the horizon? More mice have been showing up in the mouse traps this month. For some of us, especially me, Autumn’s early arrival would be a pleasant surprise, as long as we don’t revert to 90’s next month. The last time I checked, the average number of days in the 90s in Minneapolis is 13 but

As of August 6, there have been 6 days this year where the high temperature has reached at least 90 degrees Fahrenheit in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

The last time it reached at least 90° F was August 2, 2024.

We’ve been enjoying letting fresh air into the house today. With Summer temperatures, air conditioning, and windows closed, after a while the air does tend toward stale.

local trout stream at "normal" flow

Photo by J. Harrington

The rains and more rains have repeatedly spiked the flows in our local trout streams. Maybe the next week or so will provide better conditions to check out in person how they’re flowing. I may even bring along my Tenkara rod to play with. The simplicity of that approach appeals to me, at least enough to give it a try. The rod has sat in a corner for a couple of years now.

Despite being retired, I’m running into a time and energy crunch. There are a couple of other writing projects I’d like to get started on but posting here on a daily basis, and doing enough from time to time to post about, has been getting in the way of my getting started on those other projects. So, I’m considering going to less than daily here, maybe even once a week for awhile. When and if I get those other projects rolling, I may return to daily here, or not. We’re almost at 825,000 posts and many of our page views appear to be from bots, which isn’t very satisfying as far as I’m concerned. Plus, Blogger is again failing to upload images. [The image  above was added the day after original posting. I don't know what changed.]

The Trout

Amy Lowell
1874 – 1925

          Naughty little speckled trout,
          Can't I coax you to come out?
          Is it such great fun to play
          In the water every day?

          Do you pull the Naiads' hair
          Hiding in the lilies there?
          Do you hunt for fishes' eggs,
          Or watch tadpoles grow their legs?

          Do the little trouts have school
          In some deep sun-glinted pool,
          And in recess play at tag
          Round that bed of purple flag?

          I have tried so hard to catch you,
          Hours and hours I've sat to watch you;
          But you never will come out,
          Naughty little speckled trout!

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Weathering August

I finally managed to get some mowing done in the back yard. The tractor was moving slowly enough that a frog had no trouble jumping out of the way and into the water in the wet spot behind the house. We tore up a little of the still damp soil in areas that need reseeding anyhow. More rain is in the forecast for later today and tonight. Sigh! NOAA’s early forecast for the upcoming winter keeps our part of Minnesota wetter than usual. At least so far I’ve not had to shovel the rain.

Also on the home front, today we translocated a third chipmunk that’s tried setting up house under the front stoop. That’s about one a week for the past three weeks. Would that we could reduce the mole/vole/pocket gopher population as quickly and easily as live trapping chipmunks.

bees tending Giant Blue Hyssop

Photo by J. Harrington

Multitudes of bumblebees are visiting the Blue Giant Hyssop flowers in the yard. There are a few small clusters of flowers on the lilac bushes. Within the past week, several ruby-throated hummingbirds have begun battling over the feeder hanging from the deck. Morning temperatures are running in the mid50’s. The return of joy to the Democratic presidential campaign is almost giving me some hope for the future. Maybe it will turn into a joy filled autumn for many of US. Stay tuned.

For the Chipmunk in My Yard

By Robert Gibb

I think he knows I’m alive, having come down 

The three steps of the back porch 

And given me a good once over. All afternoon 

He’s been moving back and forth,

Gathering odd bits of walnut shells and twigs, 

While all about him the great fields tumble 

To the blades of the thresher. He’s lucky 

To be where he is, wild with all that happens. 

He’s lucky he’s not one of the shadows 

Living in the blond heart of the wheat.

This autumn when trees bolt, dark with the fires 

Of starlight, he’ll curl among their roots, 

Wanting nothing but the slow burn of matter 

On which he fastens like a small, brown flame.

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Tsundoku cure time?*

If the weather were like today’s year ‘round, I might be willing to give up four seasons. That’s how nice today is after yesterday’s downpours (2+ inches in our area). Overnight we dropped into the mid50’s and reached the mid70s today with sunshine and a gentle breeze. I’m going to hope all stays dry and maybe mow tomorrow.

Meanwhile, remember the old tv program Hawaii Five-0? And the tag line “Book ‘em, Danno?” I’m applying that as I start to bring some semblance of organization to my stacks and shelves and boxes of books. Undoubtedly it would help if I had the sense to use a simple sort such as arranged alphabetically by author’s last name, but that’s not really how I think. I try to organize by genre and / or theme like rivers or poetry of place. Then I lose it when I have to decide where to shelve a book of poems about the St. Croix River and does the Kinnickinnic get a separate section to itself with mixed nonfiction and poems? Nor does it help that I confound my collection of unread and partially read books by rereading some at the same time. I wonder of there’s a local group therapy available for those like me, or am I alone in these conundrums?

bookshelves a decade ago now overflow

Photo by J. Harrington

I do realize how lucky I am that this is the kind of issue that gets my attention. There are many things about which I’m troubled but can’t really do a lot. There’s one book I’ve been looking for for about 10 days now and I can’t find it. That’s something I believe I should be able to do something about but I keep tripping over “but how to organize?” No doubt it would simplify things if I sold some of the excess but that would necessitate getting books organized well enough to decide what I might want to sell. Catch 22 strikes again. If I live long enough, I’ll probably make some progress, especially if I narrow down my eclectic list of interests. But that seems like throwing out baby, bathwater and bath tub, too radical a solution to a problem of limited shelf space.

* Tsundoku

Don’t Go Into the Library

Alberto Ríos
1952 – 

The library is dangerous—
Don’t go in. If you do

You know what will happen.
It’s like a pet store or a bakery—

Every single time you’ll come out of there
Holding something in your arms.

Those novels with their big eyes.
And those no-nonsense, all muscle

Greyhounds and Dobermans,
All non-fiction and business,

Cuddly when they’re young,
But then the first page is turned.

The doughnut scent of it all, knowledge,
The aroma of coffee being made

In all those books, something for everyone,
The deli offerings of civilization itself.

The library is the book of books,
Its concrete and wood and glass covers

Keeping within them the very big,
Very long story of everything.

The library is dangerous, full
Of answers. If you go inside,

You may not come out
The same person who went in.

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Allee allee in free?!!

Today’s weather, and the state of the country’s and world’s politics, have me waxing nostalgic for times that at least seemed simpler and more sensible. It’s been raining and pouring intermittently all day. Dog walks have been scheduled between downpours but the dogs would prefer to wait until it’s dry so they can sniff better. Today’s “poem” takes me back to high school and college days, and before. I hope you enjoy it.

rain clouds overhead, and on the horizon?

Photo by J. Harrington

Our governor is reported to be one of the two remaining candidates for Madame President’s VP pick. I have mixed feelings about that. Minnesota’s loss being the nation’s gain, etc. The reality is it will be interesting to see what happens if he’s selected and we end up with a Native American woman as governor. I’ve just about reached a point where I believe we can survive almost anything but #45 becoming #47, or would that be #45a and b?

The last line in the lyrics below is how I remember ending hide and go seek games when I was a kid in Dorchester, a Boston neighborhood. My mother used to claim she could tell whose back yard I’d been playing in by the way I smelled. The phrasing differs from the Kingston Trio’s Ally Ally Oxen Free. I have no idea what may be the real etymology of the phrase. Do you?

It's Raining

Song by Peter, Paul and Mary

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

"hey I got an idea ... we could all play hide and go seek inside,

Now everybody hide and I'll be it!"

 

Star light, star bright,

First star I see tonight,

Wish I may, wish I might,

Have the wish I wish tonight.

 

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

Five ten fifteen twenty.

Twenty-five thirty. thirty-five forty.

 

Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home.

Your house is on fire, and your children,

They will burn, they will burn.

 

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

Forty-five fifty. fifty-five sixty.

Sixty-five seventy. seventy-five eighty.

 

Won't be my father's jack,

No I won't be my mother's jill,

I'll be a fiddler's wife and fiddle when I will.

 

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

Eighty-five, ninety. ninety-five, a hundred.

 

anyone round my base is it! ready or not, here I come!

allee allee in free!

Songwriters: Allen Toussaint / Naomi Neville 

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More than one reason for “No Mow"

The power went out for no more than two seconds in one of last night’s thunderstorms. That was just long enough to require the microwave and stove clocks to be reset, but not the clock/timer in the coffee maker. WTH? It also caused an instant shut-down on my desk computer and when I rebooted that, it auto-selected a wifi network that doesn’t work with Gmail. Today I figured out how to solve that problem but am left wondering if our increasing reliance on less than totally reliable technology is worth it.

back yard "lawn" and wet spot in mid-Summer

Photo by J. Harrington

The back yard doesn’t need mowing as much as the front and North side. The rain made the front “lawn” area too wet to mow, although I tried. Damp soil and mole tunnels made for uneven cuts and poor bagging of the leaves left from Spring. Rain is forecast again tonight and tomorrow. In our area, we’re approaching the wettest year to date precipitation totals. Maybe raising goats would be less trouble and they could munch on the buckthorn in the woods too. At least I’ve never been overly concerned about having the greenest and best lawn in the neighborhood, so it could be worse.

Finding a balance between backwoods rustic and republican suburban is really challenging. More so if one doesn’t have a background in agroforestry or something like that and would really rather be fishing or reading poetry. After all, wild turkeys have moved into the Twin Cities so what’s the advantage of exurban living, especially with more and more tRUMP lawn signs popping up and no metropolitan mosquito control district to help thin out biting insects? Ah, yes -- fewer neighbors overall, except for biting insects.

Grass

By Joyce Sidman

I grow in places

others can’t,

 

where wind is high

and water scant.

 

I drink the rain,

I eat the sun;

 

before the prairie winds

I run.

 

I see, I sprout,

I grow, I creep,

 

and in the ice

and snow, I sleep.

 

On steppe or veld

or pampas dry,

 

beneath the grand,

enormous sky,

 

I make my humble,

bladed bed.

 

And where there’s level ground,

I spread.

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Going with the flow?

First things first. Along the back roads to pick up this week's community supported agriculture [CSA] share, we saw a handful of deer, including one buck in velvet and a mostly grown fawn who dashed across the road in front of us after I had slowed the Jeep. Apparently no one has explained to the deer they aren’t supposed to be standing at the edge of a road or in the middle of a soy bean field at 8:45 am in a sunny Saturday morning, even if they’re in a rural area near the St. Croix River.

Sunrise River flowing into the St. Croix

Photo by J. Harrington

Here’s what we picked up once we got to the farm:

• Tomatoes
• Green Tower Lettuce
• Green Bell Pepper
• Summer squash 
• Bulb onion
• Parsley 
• Genovese Basil

I'm grateful there was no zucchini included, although the Better Half did a great job hiding the last batch in a spicy veggie sauce for our dinner of shrimp and grits the other night. I suspect the green peppers will show up in tomorrow’s stuffed peppers dinner. I’n not really against veggies, I just don’t want to overdo a good thing. ; >)

Last evening we watched a PBS segment on Ada Limón’s poet laureate project on poetry in the parks. It was a treat to see her and the effort National Park Service is putting into the project. We could use more of this kind of project. I join with Michael Garrigan who "strongly believes that every watershed should have a Poet Laureate.” That could take more than 80 poet laureates for Minnesota river basins. How can we make that happen?

Michael Garrigan

The River, a Mouth

We walk the river’s jaw
along its curved bone ledges,
long palates growing eelgrass,
spooking baitfish and bass, to the dam.

Rusty crayfish flick through
summer teeth slick boulders as we slip
the weight of our bodies becomes buoyant
and we float until our boots touch bottom.

Lightning bugs splatter
shorelines as storms split us in two.
Rain downstream, lightning upstream,
dam at our back, we are halves of all we held.

We wade deeper into the dark
our feet become a bed of pebbles
our legs tooth roots buried in bone
our waists eddies, our chest hair - hibiscus.

We follow the river’s tongue
down its throat into its lungs
and feel the crack of thunder choking
our names in the language of water and rock.

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Changing tunes and times

I missed noting that yesterday was Lughnasadh, the first of two harvest festivals, the second being Alban Elfed (the Autumn Equinox). Today, the first Fall catalog arrived in the mail. I walked down the drive with temperatures in the upper 80’s to collect that mail, so, as usual by this time each Summer, I’m really looking forward to Autumn, even if summer weather haas been cooler and wetter, like this year.

goldenrod blossoms in a field of green grasses

Photo by J. Harrington

There’s a strange mix of blossoms in the yard, with a few lilac blossoms (Spring time) and some goldenrod (Autumn). Many of our lilies have already bloomed and faded. One of these weeks we’ll notice the first hints of leaves changing colors and I’ll start trading short-sleeved, cotton t-shirts for long-sleeved flannel and chamois shirts.

There are several songs that haunt me about this time each year. One is Joni Mitchell’s The Circle Game, with its all too true refrain:

And the seasons they go round and round 
And the painted ponies go up and down 
We're captive on the carousel of time 
We can't return we can only look 
Behind from where we came 
And go round and round and round 
In the circle game

In my mind that song complements her Autumn focused Urge for Going and the chorus lines:

I get the urge for going

When the meadow grass is turning brown

And summertime is falling down and winter is closing in

The neighbor’s meadow grass hay field has turned brown and is one of the few meadow grass fields in our area not already cut and baled.

We’re at at time when one cycle appears to be nearing completion and a new one is barely emerging. It’s too soon to tell what our next American dream may be, but it’s not likely to be the same as the one we chased after WWII. Infinite growth on a finite planet doesn’t work as well as figuring out how to continually produce better quality lives for the next generations.

Autumn

By Sydney Lea

Why not write something for those

who scratched out improbable livings here?

Someone has managed to sow

This broken field with stones, it appears,

 

So someone’s scratching it still,

Although that Japanese knotweed has edged

The tilth. Two wasps in the child

Attempt to catch sun on a rail of the bridge.

 

The old local doctor has passed

At almost a full decade past ninety.

He never seemed depressed.

Seventy now, if barely,

 

I consider the field again:

Someone will drag these rocks away

But they’ll be back. The air smells like rain,

Which is fine, the summer’s been much too dry.

 

Nothing is left of the barn

But some rusty steel straps in some nasty red osier.

The stone fence still looks sound,

But even there the knotweed steps over.

 

Hadn’t I pledged an elegy

To the old ones who worked here? You couldn’t claim

They thrived, exactly, but maybe

They likewise scented good wind full of rain,

 

Lifted eyes above this old orchard

To the cloud-darkened hills and found their support

Somehow, somewhere. No matter,

They kept going until they could go no more.

 

The trees’ puckered apples have gathered

A flock of birds, and as they alight,

They’re full of unseasonable chatter,

As if to say that all will be right.

 

The old ones I promised a poem

Must have said it too. It’ll be all right.

I never knew them. They’re gone.

I say it out loud, It’ll be all right.

 

 

—Caledonia County, Vermont

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Another cloudy sunnie day

Once again I went fishing with my not-quite-four-years old Granddaughter and her Dad, my Son-In-Law. Once again she outfished me. This time quicker and better. She caught an 8 or 9 inch largemouth bass and a couple of small sunnies to my nada. I had swipes at my yellow ant, but apparently the hook was still too big. Next time we’ll scale down the rod, leader and try fishing teeny, tiny streamers. Fishing, like life, is a learning experience. All I knew from fishing different places years ago doesn’t readily transfer to much smaller fish in much tighter quarters around a city dock.

John Buchan: 'The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is
elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.'

Photo by J. Harrington

The closest I’ve come to how and where we’re fishing these days was back in about the seventh grade, fishing late afternoon to early evening off the Hingham city dock for smelt, using seaworms as bait and a bamboo pole as a rod. I hadn’t thought about that for years, until this afternoon.

It’s encouraging to see the younger generations picking up where we’re leaving off. The tackle I’ve accumulated over the years may continue to bring pleasure once I can no longer use it. If I make a few adjustments and get back in practice, I hope that won’t be for awhile.

Bringing Forth

On the gold rock,
we used to sit
with our primitive poles.
Sticks we gathered
from grandmother’s
broken maples,
pins we tied by the head
onto white string.
The sunnies swam
brown-golden-rainbow
in her lake, near the sand beach
she brought in
herself. We always cheered
when we hooked
the surge of body and fin.
But I also cried
at the blood, the shining hole,
and more often than not
I threw the breathless sunnies
back in.

— L.L. Barkat

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