Eat all the hunger you can,
this is not a morning for a delicate breakfast.
Your lunch is moist, day-old and smaller
as the day gets high.
A kettle lake is the kind I best know, a round glacial divot fed by meltwater, underground seepage, an island of water in the vast scar of land and people, but this lake, the Green River Reservoir, is a slowed river, outwardly connected to the water around it via channels narrow and meandering; the flowage system is elongate and fanged, with many sharp inlets, coves and bays; the trees here explode unto the edge of water, only separated by a smooth crest of rock, like foliage sprouting on the shell of an enormous ancient turtle.
Lining the bottom of the cove,
as much as I have seen follows:
Newts, decaying leaves and sticks,
some kind of seaweed, old logs, a dead sunfish.
The fluid wander becomes stagnant, glacialized; we are awash in a landscape and ourselves--
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