I don't usually sit down and just free write, but the poem below came from an idle half hour of writing with my inner critic in neutral.
Unexpectedly Peter tickled a trout
a skill he had never disclosed
before that night when the stars
were bouncing their light off the mill pond
He just reached in
then there was this fish
wriggling in his hands
we all laughed
as he returned it to the dark waters
It works I think, a simple straight, forward narrative, something I could have remembered. I don't, though, think it is true. It is a very vague memory. But then again, things don't have to be real to be true, or so it seems with all the made up nonsense circulating about the internet.
Here's the Mountain Goats singing along with the audience.
Until next time.
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