diana lynn

All is Well


Golden hot fields of 


always one jump ahead of us, 

flying hard into the tall weeds

safe from my uncle's cupped hands 

and the rusty 


bait can

in his vest pocket.


Lying low and silent in dry grass

they escape the fate of fishing poles 

and the points of barbed hooks.


They avoid cold creek water

and wary old trout

longing for fat bugs.


Hunter and hunted,

one thing becoming another,

each avoiding death 

until the very end.


Let there be grace 

in our swirling 

under the spell of 

water and sky and earth 

and the smell 

of new willows 

rooted along the bank.


From where the trees stand,


all is well.


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