Fording the Creek

So many times
I tried to grasp
at veins
under river’s
liquid skin.
Wading stream crossings,
I saw rocks
through water’s lens—
green as turquoise
and flecked with copper veins.
Yet each time
I reached,
my fishing hand
came up empty.
The shimmering rock
escaped my grasp
like flash of trout
or spadefoot toad.

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