on the day the waters
full of bloated salmon
rose so they flooded the plain
picnic tables the park
heads were about to have
repainted, the tiny hamlet
without its own identity
because of such an intimate
nestle arrangers
of yore – when the tiny hamlet
was but a niblet
and foamy falls broke out of the crust
claiming no less than Cambrian
blood, anyway on the day
this went on or when the crescendo
spoke, there was a camper
seeing all and stomped the ground
and tossed the pan of cold
coffee straight in the face
of the silver-bearded sow
who’d been in the local
wild roses basking
in sounds of shad singers designed
to induce stress-absent napping
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