Farm

They can’t see that slack net spread flat on the wall above
their watery tomb in Escouloubre where the river Aude
roars by, flinging spume into summer’s overhang. Kissing
its sun-speckled rocks a world away from these doomed
black trout lurking duped and mute. Not knowing who’ll be next
to fill the café’s pretty plates, empty-eyed, mouths agape while
their ribs come clean between swigs of bières blondes and eager
plans of how best to spend the rest of that stunning
afternoon.

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