Delicacy. Black legged, holding stalk eyes,
its progress up the weir is tentative,
like a boxer sidling away fugitive
from an unseen threat. The water eddies
under, a swollen claw swaying in the air
til a surge flips it over on its side
and carries it, flow-ward, down the concrete slide,
as would have happened had we not been there.
Swallow see-saws interlace the autumn dusk.
Our silence indicates no closeness, but
a gathering far-off frost, a summer's husk.
I wonder whether suffering has closure,
a neat end-point, or whether there’s just
crayfish, crawling up the empty weir, again.
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