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Swamp country

They called it swamp country. I didn't. You enter through a keyhole of willow in gravity's gate. Here winds hesitate above hollow trees wearing gray skin and wading where land once was.

One summer, I dipped my oars into the morning and rowed into a meadow of lily pads that float as thick as ideas on the water's surface. I did not anchor. But drifted in shoals alive with lotus and hyacinth.

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Then, emerging from that dark place beneath the bottom of the boat knifing through still water luminous as an insight a pickerel: quickly with a net of fingers thrust into the shallows I groped

But I could not capture it from the shadow of the lily pad.

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