What’s For Dinner, Darlin'?
Minutes from my front door
is a winding mountain road
and pristine experimental forest
clothed in spring still,
blooming with purple lupin
and cascading wild daisies.
Big Dalton Dam,
held back quiet water’s
mellow hold on slowly moving
green mossy grass dancing
where the bass silently swim
in unworried torpor
Two gates locked
and we have the key
that opens onto a place
noisy with bees
and frequent piles of bear scat,
where the shy deer drinks
we slip our line into translucent water
and I watch the graceful questioning
of my hooked and appealing worm.
The sun has coasted behind the ridge
and bats dive in graceful meal catching
when from the center of the lake
a lazy eye splashes
across the quiet surface lapping.
I am a patient worm dangler
drinking in the scene,
memorizing the colors,
listening for a bird song,
watching the smoky sky drain daylight
and my mate in fisherman frenzy
plops his lure and perfects the movement
until the silver slither shines
in luscious attraction.
Plop, I hear through my revere
and then silence so heavy I can hear a sigh,
plop, across the water,
it is the percussion to the vocals of the dove,
the beat that moves the rippled water,
plop, a cadence sweet and simple
plop, then silence as I turn to see
him pull out a huge large mouth bass
and watch joy wash across his face.
What’s for dinner, darlin’?
I simper into the fading perfect darkening sky.
[This message has been edited by Martie (edited 06-03-2000).]