image from basspro.com
“Fishing is much more than fish.”
I was twenty
as I pole-axed 17 miles
of trail, massaging the steepness
like a polished gigolo,
sieving the sweet, cold
creek water, flexing my kidneys,
flushing my cramping molecules
with rushing ice-cubed swallows,
pre-registering the hike--
burying my eyes in frozen bliss,
as the August sun spanked my brain,
and the fifty-pound wooden Trapper Nelson
pack kissed my spine.
I fished with my Remington .22 pistol,
its chromed hot barrel flash-barking
pleasantness as it spat brass,
hitting several curious fat rainbow
trout in the head, as I gauged the shots
relative to the parabolic bending of light.
So my grandfather and I had flesh rainbows for
dinner, their brightly colored sides blackening in
bacon grease, bubbling to a charred crackle, its
meat pope-white in the golden light, fin deep in
the cast iron frying pan--no fishing pole in sight
there in that verdant twilight, midst ankle-high
clover in a angelic valley at the foot of a glacier.
Later Mt. Stewart
squatted to join us around
our smiling campfire.
Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub