Back 40: Bewitched


Behind the beaver dam

the water shimmered silver clouds
reflecting the twilight sky.

Rippling surface circles
barely betrayed trout sipping midges
that barely caught my eye.

Still as a heron I waited
as the pond blushed beautifully to pink
when the sun began to die.

Bewitched by this opalescent silence
I wandered beyond, toward my own death,
and forgot to cast my fly.

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