Читать книгу Waking - Ron Rash - Страница 11

Caught by my uncle

in the Watauga River,

brought back in a bucket

because some believed

its gills were like filters,

that pureness poured into

the springhouse’s trough pool,

and soon it was thriving

on sweet corn and biscuits,

guarding that spring-gush,

brushing my fingers

as I swirled the water

up in my palm cup

tasted its quickness

swimming inside me.