Through my bedroom window,
I spot a peach-colored fish
stuck between stones in the old stonewall.
I imagine she’s been beached,
but once I slap through the screened door,
leaping past the snakes’ rustle,
I find it’s just another rock torn
by a farmer’s plunging knuckles
from the landscape’s lap,
and propped atop the assemblage.
No longer a she, it’s a dead fact.
But why is it pinkish-orange?
Bleached by years of sun, I think,
and further bleached by ice.
Grooved with fins of rain, I think.
Mistaken nearly twice.
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