as if falling from that place
where all things go when they are lost
or if, for an instant, the mechanics
of time unfurled themselves
the trout move
then to the trust of rivers
towards where they
as spawn
broke out
from the uterine thrust
of rain fed spate
up and through
their story wrote in water
the scent of the depression
muscled out of the gravel for generations,
at the tail out
of the big bend hole
overhung by willows
back across their own juvenile history
their origin
this spot
that mystery
fills currents born of silent flow
screaming a call
echoing through rock and water
lingering ghosts of
waiting female and competing male
the compelling musk
of sand and granite
rotted cedar log
whorling maple leaf in a back eddy
moss covered ledges
and stone
driving them
to dominate or surrender
to dig deep into the stream bed
of their ancestry
or to tumble lifeless,
back down into the moon lit pools.
Keep a tight line,
Steve Therrien
