Soft and slow, the water moves,
Comely, cool, it lingers,
Fed by rain and snow it moves,
Unseen but shown in seeps and springs.
The rod is trembling, roughly forked,
Its edges roughly chanced
To find a curve—the way a lark
Finds curve in the air’s resistance.
The rod’s geometry will seek
The intimacy of strangers,
Stretching out and down to reach
Toward the harbor of black earth.
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