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| Damian Wilmot in a the mist on the Brule River, WI |
everything falls sometime
whether heading upstream moments before the crossing: through the alder
a split cloud cover canopy
distraction
one side: the unretractable gray ceiling on
this trail
the other: mare’s tails whipping across
azure and hot white afternoon
sun rings radiating out
or
crossing above the rock dam
shuffling between shin barking
rocks and
the slime
that turn all into stumbling
drunks covered
ones
with rods held out for balance
against the press of current
(can be reassuring)
past the edge of conformity and
comfort in the shadow
of a passing front
or
the sudden sun wash of light inlaying each wrinkle
in those places where in the dark metal surface
we send our self to silence with silver foil
where our souls sometimes come
and go
where there are no human rights
and everyone is known as Nohbdy
we fish
we fish there
with measured intent
stand in the shallows on the
other side of the crossing
only to strip the sweater off
and stuff it in the vest
enjoy
the cooling damp
in shirt sleeves
watch the young of the year
dart about the wading boots
only to look up into the
wavering clouds of Hendrickson spinners
climb up
the riffle
at head height, thick and shifting in their clumsy
flight
to dab at the surface, grasp at
each other in their ephemeral moment
only to climb again, curled
tail heavy with their pregant weight
each egg sack
translucent yellow glowing
awakening dream scape of color
and light
on unsure footing waiting
for the fall
for the trout in their ficklness
won’t rise from their
but watch the mayfly dance silent
through their wrinkled silver
windows lie
a collective refusal
of egg rich sexuality
and submissive protein
how long before staring into
this flight before time
lost
we’ve fallen
into it
Keep a tight line,
Steve
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| Dave Lucca in the midst of a Hendrickson spinner fall |
