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I thought: it's only brown water,
a hand, fluid, reaching to me.

No, it is bruised clouds, a hungry mountain,
the dying away of snow.

I wade the shallows-limbs
of trees float past and fur clotted
with leaves, debris, all swept away.

Balmy night, wet to thighs.
Then in deepening loss, a shoe
full of mud, rain, tiny fish.

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