By Lyn Lifshin

 

Pale salmon light,

9 degrees. Floor

tiles icy. Past

branches the

beaver’s gnawed

 

at the small hole

the heron waits,

deep in the water.

Sky goes apricot,

tangerine, rose.

 

Suddenly, a dive,

then the heron

with sun squirming

in his mouth, a

carp that looks a

 

third as big as he

is gulped, then

swallowed, orange

glittering wildly

like a flag or the

 

wave of someone

drowning

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