Trout-shifting, we skim, we slide,
we fly our feet.
We are five, we are twenty-five, we are eighty-five.
We are dead. We are not yet born.
This chalk-scratched river is ours;
and the currents that curl its weeds,
calm its stones and chase the wild things into the dark places
are the stories that built us.

Written as part of the 10 Days 2015 arts and literature festival.









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