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J o r d a n   S m i t h


Twilight, Spiggie Loch


I'd give up sleep. The flyfisher has waded half-way

From shore to shore; his line's an arc the sky

Ripples back. Men are shifting hay from cart to barn.

It's eleven at night, almost full light. A woman,

A girl, stand watching. The hotel's black Lab

Is hauling the only stick for miles in his mouth.




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