A Sporting Chance
April 15 2010


I prefer standing.
On gently sloping rocks,
that held ice
were covered
when water ran high.

Sun warmed
pink-and-grey granite,
worn smooth
except for hard seams of quartz.
With little specks of glitter
when light hits
just so.

Or thigh deep.
Hip waders
on stubby suspenders
billowing around my chest,
calibrating distance, depth.
Legs braced
against the water’s weight,
impervious.

A flip of the wrist
whipsaw rod
inaudible plop.
A line, angled tautly
abruptly ends
in a glassy surface,
a pool
unplumbed.
Sun-lit ripples glint.

The terrestrial hunter
venturing out of his element.
This most formidable carnivore,
whose lunch
sits in a cooler on shore,
handicapped
by his attachment to land,
treacherous run-off.

Because sitting
on a cold aluminum seat,
bilge, sloshing at his feet
rainbowed with oil
the stink of exhaust,
hardly seems respectful.

A dark shadow
drifts over the known world.
Depth charges,
dropping down from the heavens above
trailing bubbles.
Because in their invisible domain
the silver-sided fish,
all tapered fins, sleek effortless muscle,
can’t help themselves.