A man staring at a small lake sees

    His father cast light line out over

    The willows.  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 wades 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.