Do you really want to send darl a message saying you like their work?
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.