Sketches of A Life in July

There are fish in the river
tiny, moving like splintered sunlight, just below the
clear lens, refracting white
of the water's surface.

Walking on the rivershore, sharp stones point upward
make me pay attention
these little insistences of pain.
Two drakes lift noisily, all hard wingfeathers and crystal beads.

These little scraps of motion,
displaced air
the hole in the grass left from a tiny serpent's passing.
Jagged-edged and restless sunlight
and all the empty spaces left behind.
Does the brokenness allow an image to cohere?