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Sheep Lake

By James Papworth

At dawn  
sucked into the basin  
of Sheep Lake  
frost releases its hazy hold.  
Naked grass bends.  
A crow barks its one command.  
Goat tracks spray the dirt  
with their nonsense,  
amble off in pairs  
through worn mud 
Nightsounds disappear  
over the ridge  
fingering poke grass  
and rock.  
Halfway across the lake  
a cutthroat takes a fly.  

James Papworth