Ice Fishing



what you need merely is the proper width of ice to bear you and the weight

of sled, auger, bit,

bait, traps, cooler full of cheap beer and hope;



strong daylight and a span of hours unchecked:

nothing more is required.



sans skill and corporeal

fortitude.



or else what you need is a passion for the known and a passion for the unknown

or else the dual mind possessed by all true creatures

or else what you need is a taste for the intelligence of men



or maybe you need none of this.

anyway,



you stand suspended upon a hand of ice over hidden murky waters

believing in the silent long pickerel,

the simple gold and russet perch and most of all the nickel bass



all hidden nimbly and appearing curiously in refraction, though by you unseen, as deft bronze shoes

drifting, slowly falling, waiting only for the peculiar twitch in their senses

brought on by your shiner bait which also drifts and falls; this twitch moves their blood and moves

their lives and yours as it moves them

toward you, moves them

toward the hidden barb at the end

of the line



there above them you stand in the thin cold wind and white sunlight

buried in your layers of fleece and flannel, wool, Thinsulate,

a beer standing in the crusted snow at your feet

and maybe the last wisp of a pungent smoke tangs your cold nostrils

as you feel your beard frozen into bristles from your breath and this takes just a second -



yeah you stand there after setting the traps

and lines,

sending your wishes into the cold covered water,

into the cold blood of the fish



wishing like only mammals can:

quietly



thinking about anger like far country you walked in once

back in your drop of ambition

before your eyes changed

and too the world but now



in the white smooth expanse of this pond long

and born in a valley of white pines

you stand up from your slushy bit born hole



to blow life back into your fingers

with your breath

like everyone else's

on the planet



and now the scaly quarry's drawn up

be it pickerel, bass, or crappie:

it spasms like an embodiment

of some visible telepathy,

a cold creature of purest form.



you have your fingers then

in the great mind of something.

don't be afraid to call it God.



ten minutes later you crack

another beer