Three Poem by Stug Jordan

There are no more than three of them,
neatly unpicked from the cross-stitch
of a yellow country scene,
three strands of beings, fishing –

and rods arched over the river like
small inadequate bridges,
as they sit against the blue, hatted.
And here and there a shallow sound

baits the day, climbing back up
the reeds like a wet dog,
to cluster in their ears with the crickets
and the last threads of the evening.