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.