The water wolves are hiding beneath the flooded ridges and valleys of timber and
Amongst the dead branches and bones of old lawn chairs bob basketballs and pre-pierced needles
And the fumes from the refinery that droops and seeps into their gaping maws
That cause the melancholic squonkish tear duct that exists in every pickerel
They don't care, they just sit back into their twisted, matted nests and
Wait... wait... wait...
Until that false sense of urgency slices through like a filet knife through y-bone
Clattering along the bumpy baby-blue sky-blue life-blue road
Water wolves can't make up their mind, play with their food, half the time snatch it out of the waiter's hand before it even reaches the table
And the other half of the time that false urgency halts
Like it did in white-tail fawn who spooked from the brush pile upon my approach
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