For years he considers the arrival of crows
Now the lake seems omnidistant

All elegies go unseen along a line that stands for trees
It’s a far cry for elegance to hold so many fish
At least that’s how the surface of the water seems today
Shuffling a reflection of the sky he wants to say is oceanic
And the clouds he wants to say are ships sailing by
But the cliché police have caught up with him
Even this far north

So his son appears and quotes Blake:
Dad—my line’s snagged. On a rock!