Three Poems

 

The Last Catch

I've waded upstream for at least three miles,
the current swift, stones slippery & sharp.
At last the water flattens into a pool,

clearer, deeper than any so far. Mayflies
thicken the air in undulating clouds.
Brookies break the surface repeatedly.

The dimples widen & merge. There's an hour
yet to dusk. I have time to work the drift.
A great blue heron stands ghostly at the edge

of the pool, blending into tall cattails. He watches
as I thread my finest fly onto a tippet so thin
I fumble it twice. I let out the line, loop it

carefully, then hurry a cast & botch it.
The hook snags a fallen log. As if he's seen
enough, the heron stretches his slender neck

out over the water, takes a fluid stab & comes
up with a minnow flapping in his bill, not a trout,
but a juvenile yellow perch. Nonetheless, it'll be

the last catch during daylight. The fish have scattered
downstream, far away from the commotion.
The heron flips his head back, swallows whole.

 

Rumblings

My friend Daniel & I have paddled to
our favorite spot on Mirror Lake where rainbow
trout chase shiners to the surface. We've lowered
an anchor to hold us steady while we cast
silver Rapala crankbaits. There's a soft breeze.

Sweet pepperbush fills the air. Then a rumbling
blast shakes the budding maples along the bank.
Mergansers squawk & scatter. A detonation
at Fort Devens a mile away. Training exercises?

On a Sunday? I look at Daniel. He's gone
pale, eyes closed tight, jaw clenched.
I grab his fishing pole before he drops it
into the water. I can't pretend to understand

what's pumping through his brain. I know his Huey
torpedoed down under NVA fire near Khe Sanh
& he chucked his Purple Heart into the Charles
River shortly after he got home. I also know
there's nothing I can say. I scan the tree line

then the sky, check the drag on Daniel's reel.
When his hands stop trembling, he'll take back
his pole. We may or may not cast again today
but he saw trout rise. Big ones. We'll return.

 

It's a beautiful day

in the way that rain is beautiful when
finches still lift their choruses up

despite the grayness. I'm going where I can
be least useful, where no one needs me.

The creek will flow a little faster than usual,
the trillium will be a deeper red, almost crimson.

There's a tall white birch I can lean against
& watch deer do what they do on days like this.

Here's warm drizzle. Here's the sanctuary gate
dripping all its rust. I step on through.