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A poem by Sarah Giddy

These things are real –

The yelp of the feet as they hit the frosty grass,

The skim of the lure as it hits the stream like stone

The glow of the morning that hits the face like a song

The jerk of the line with the fish’s feisty pull.


Alone is real.

Water is real.

Sky is real.


Now is real.


Reel in the fish and put on the kettle.

Now is the time for woodsmoke, wet canvas, cold fingers, breakfast and dancing.


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