by Alexandra Palmer
Especially on Sunday afternoons, it’s nice to touch
the Catawba river with your mothy hands to get a gist of the size of
moss beds and Blue Ridge snow. Go
ahead, get a grip on it, vaquero.
Roll, Jordan, roll
it into alarming handfuls. Feel the wet tussle willy-nilly under your fingernails.
As you will notice, the fish no longer live
downstream. They have waded unbidden
into the confluence to dip their fins into oblivion.
