trees
brush
He wanders dirt roads
rut and mud
to the bridge at Ross Creek
He follows the stream
toward home
growing narrower
and shallower
with willow thickets
closing in
He has to crawl to pass through
over the yellow
narrow fallen leaves
and there on his knees
he finds
goldfish
huddling in the drying
clear puddles
He is worried that they will
die in these wallows
and scoops them with his hands putting
some in his pockets and
holding others
as many as he can
safe
against his chest
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