A man staring at a small lake sees

His father cast light line out over

The willows.  He's forgotten his 

Father has been dead for two years

And the lake is where a blue fog

Rolls, and the sky could be, if it

Were black or blue or white,

The backdrop of all attention.



He wades out to join the father,

Following where the good strikes

Seem to lead.  It's cold.  The shape

Breath takes on a cold day is like

Anything else--a rise on a small lake,

The Oklahoma hills, blue scrub--

A shape already inside a shape,

Two songs, two breaths on the water.