A man staring at a small lake sees

    His father cast light line out over

    The willows¹.  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 wades² 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.