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This poem is taken from PN Review 22, Volume 8 Number 2, November - December 1981.

Letter Wyatt Prunty

    1

Today the water whitens over rocks,
Breaking before our eyes into a sound
As constant as the rhythmed strokes
That neighbors make with saws, trimming the limbs brought down
By winter ice;
              the branches crack
As, thrown into the stream, they spin around
Then dart above rocks that, half submerged
Jut moss-green from the mumbled blue, the current's urge.

Three days ago, two miles below the dam,
A boy slipped down in wading clothes,
Trout fishing with his father on the bank;
He surfaced, waved then slipped again,
Tugging a canvas jacket free to swim.
His father ran along the edge
Then side-stepped to the middle with a limb.
...


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