"I step to wade
in the dense spawn."
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
I will Not Go On Counting Days
All along the two-mile bank I hear
the silver knick, the alto
rippling of a thousand
fins and soft mouths that lap
and lean into the net
of last year's reeds.
In the stone-choked channel -
fifty, sixty frenzied carp
flop through the thin water, sacrifice
breath in the unrelenting
return to carry forward.
I step to wade
in the dense spawn. If only
I could soak in the pure thrust,
the hem of their plain sustaining.
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