to C.P., with much fondness

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we sat, as I imagine
you might have envied,
ten feet above the shoreline

bracing ourselves against
ridgeline winds with
whiskey warmed in cider

and watching the trout rise
in sudden ripples to
pick off the new hatch

and now returning to learn
that you’ve gone – startling
as a hook in the mouth

© Sarah Whiteley

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