Ice Fishing
Not thinking other than how the hand works
I wait until dark here on the cold
world rind, ice-curved over simplest rock,
where the tugged river flows over
hidden springs too insidious to be
quite forgotten.
When the night comes I plunge my hand
where the string of fish know their
share of the minimum, then
bringing back my hand is a great
sunburst event; and slow home
with me over unmarked snow.
In the wild flipping warmth of
won-back thought,
my boots, my hat, my body go.
William Stafford
Posted over on William Stafford Archives
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