|
On Leafless Limbs of Willos
Harding Stedler |
The lake is my escape,
where fishermen are driven
from choppy waters
by Canadian cold.
I come to join
the shivering coots,
our backs against the wind.
On a day when the sky
is layered gray,
there is little to keep me here
except for thistle down
and sumac,
remnants left of summer.
All there is to do
is swing on limbs of willow
and dream of greening April
and distant spring migration.
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