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Heron on Ice
by Lyn Lifshin
Pale salmon light, 9 degrees. Floor tiles icy. Past branches the beaver's gnawed
at the small hole the heron waits, deep in the water. Sky goes apricot, tangerine, rose.
Suddenly, a dive, then the heron with sun squirming in his mouth, a carp that looks a
third as big as he is gulped, then swallowed, orange glittering wildly like a flag or the
wave of someone drowning