Dry Cold
Feb 15 2011


He will trundle home
in late afternoon
in the grey-blue glow
of twilight.
When the wind has finally died,
and the dry cold
feels like a solid mass,
weighing down on the world.

Pulling a plastic sled
with gutted fish, flash-frozen,
a steel auger, folding chair, tiny tent
teeter-totter rod, heavy test.
Left-over minnows, left behind,
hardening into trampled snow.
The sled is brittle in the cold
and bounces sharply.

Ice fishing, alone, on the frozen lake,
a small dark object, in a shapeless parka
huddled all day
in the vast expanse,
unobstructed wind
going right through him.

He will fillet, pan fry
fresh-caught pickerel,
the firm white flesh
the delicate taste.
But catching fish, in winter
through a small black hole
is simple,
just sit
and they sluggishly come,
fat fish, without much fight.

No, it’s the purification of cold
the astringent silence.
The humility of solitude
under so much sky
untracked miles of ice.

One foot is numb
the tip of his nose, frozen.
And the small round hole
is already closing over,
sealing all the fish
into their warm dark place,
big fish getting bigger
little fish for prey.

And by the bright red stain
of blood, and spilled fish guts
the minnows, by ravens,
strutting, haggling, flapping
crow-hopping daintily.

Until the wind picks up,
and all evidence of the man
vanishes for good.