raining and pouring
old robin on the branch
aint snoring
or reading poetry
robin is a bird
working hard at it
wet and without
memory of the land before time
not that tv show, animated as it was,
but of the evolution of species
the origin rather
when birds went bald
and the rain wasn't so cold
holes in the flows
river torrents rip around
fathom currents dips and foam twists
for treble cleft hooked lips
fins and dives in the drink
racoons and beer cans float
just the same as walleye boats
anchors iron stern
bow and bilge the scuppers
where suckers swim
ciscos white perch
on tight lines or even bobbers
sopping in the chop of forty acres
where next fall is today
one frozen handful of fingers away
the timing of lives
is hard to belie
at the surface or below
insects slowly pupate and grow
into the wings of a higher purpose
to fall victim to swallows half arco iris
piano strings
at night ring
a puzzle of midge
wings and brilliant cascades
of water things
dimensionless constants as harbringers
to summer bee stings
glossy putter pings
and the virtue of bilge
water pump tinkering
gar sees the stars
twinkling and stretching
the red mars flowers and wanders
wobbling behind the blood fog
moon stain on a satin may night
river breath graces more than a fish
bowfin swims again and again
aghast at the haunts
times past when river grass
flowered and passed
the remains mud hash
algae green acid paths
the bottom rotten to the last
every chocolate cake needs teeth
and silver spoons
brilliant metals combine with volatiles
organic molecules and porcelain platters
do the satisfactory work
behind the precursor to front page reviews
big bites slowly chewed
slowing time on the meridian tongue
avenue down the pipe to press
in such periodicals as culinary introspectives
require thoughtful digestions