Years ago
the dam held
up a hand like
a traffic cop
and would not
be disobeyed.

For 100 miles
upstream, seeps
from sloughs,
runnels, creeks,
1000 springs
inventing a way—
all came.

Every fallen
leaf had the
map, the veins
joining and
joining.

All that braided
water slack now
except for the
trickle staining
the spillway—

purposeless, flat,

an Etch-a-
Sketch for the
catspaw breeze.

At night, another
vain moon-mirror.
The wheeling
stars—too
remote to care.

Shores as wide
as the drive
from home
to the office
and back.
               
              Deep
as a day’s worth
of troubles.

Fisherman

far out under
your wide hat

cast a line.

Catch the magic
fish.
         
           Whisper

the question.

               Ask

it the way.