The water: 
brown as old brake fluid.
The rock: smooth,
flat and dry.

I'd come with a notebook.
I'd meant to write a letter.

The fish:
brown and green and silver.
Dying,
stranded on its side.
Tail snapping on rock,
hard, like a sheet in the wind.

The slope: gentle.
The mud: shallow.
I was wearing boots.
I snapped my book closed,

started toward the fish,
but found myself turning
toward home and breakfast.

Light, like a sheet in the breeze,
I herded a hollow can more
than halfway home.

Some things are better left unsaid.
Some things aren't worth saving.

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