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The white dog froze, one paw raised.

The green boat turned slowly  .

The forest echoed to splash of oars,

The smoke from our fire cast a mist over the water.

 

He rose from the lake with a grin,

a belly roll above battle fatigues,

– hung out by the fire

I had no beer, no Finnish. 

 

‘Fish not good; one small, one so big’.

His hands measured no more than ten inches.  

Berry? He counted fingers;

one, two, three week,   

 

There was a box tied around round the dogs neck

Global positioning system.

She find moosa, I find her

with phone – see! I shoot moosa.

 

Next month,

a hundred migrant workers

from Thailand

arrive to pick the berries.

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