Poem #10: Ephemerella Invaria
one or two yellow irises bloom, unfolded and delicate,
at their feet the stream pauses, circling, traced in foam and going nowhere fast
out among the rocks and pockets, a banner of gold flashes,
fleeing, being born, eating, dying, procreating, the hatch begins
browns feast on the emerging, pale watery duns,
anglers, like gargoyles are stationed on the shore
yellow-orange flies lie in rows, in boxes,
sulfur is such a strange word to describe
the color of mayflies.
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