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.