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Mayflies Ripples pinprick the surface. It’s coming from below, mayfly nymphs pipping, twitching out of skins, and fanning moist wings. A few then tens of thousands rise in frenzied clouds. Males fall first, drizzling back to the water’s face like ash, then females light the shining and spill their eggs before night takes over. Here I am at the quarry again, thinking of stories to tell you: the raccoon that made off with the hotdog buns, the broken tent pole, the cottonwoods someone cut and hauled off to sell for violin bridges in Japan or China, the bald eagle nesting in a loblolly, the gobbler strutting in a green field, all of the things I didn’t see yesterday or today, but instead remember from when I was a kid, the observations you say bring us closer. I won’t tell you about the mayfly nymphs, the urge for change, flight, and sex; how, nonetheless, the nymphs wait patiently for years 56 in the dark cracks of riprap and sunken leaves for the perfect day, temperature, clarity; how nights with her make me love you more. 57 ...

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