Marvin Lurie

Fishing

At dusk I was at the shore
casting. My lure, catching only glints of last light,
settled soundlessly into the water.
Leaves and twigs eddied,
pushed together against the shore,
some sank, some floated away.
We were all together in the same place once,
standing around a few branches burning on old ashes,
smoke mixing with our breaths, waiting to start a hunt,
as if some augury about the best time
could be divined from how sparks rose in the filtered light,
one who died before we were ready,
one who is lost to us somewhere,
one who is not well and waiting to leave, and me.
I don’t hunt anymore.
I stand at the shore and cast.

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