Fishing When The Snow Runs Wild Down The Mountains

The fish would spill through your fingers
as you picked them up from the shadow that was water.
You'd throw your line back into the fog,
where it crept through beaver dams
and trees and water
and pull it back when you felt that
shock run through your fingers:
you'd caught one. Reel it in as you store all this in your mind:
Spring. And you, alone, fishing.
barefoot and alive
in the early morning rush of forest.