Tuesday, March 19, 2013

"waiting for the fall"

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                                                                    


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 


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
                                                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,


Dave Lucca in the midst of a Hendrickson spinner fall

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