Force of the season flashes the bird north,
And the fish shearing up cold currents to spawn.
At that time fishermen stand on the banks of rivers.
Along the Potomac they huddle on every rock
From before light comes till after the light is gone.
A seasonal rite performed in happiness:
Fish blood stiffened on fingers, perhaps, allows
Timbre of friendliness in voices that call
From rock to rock, and voices that fondly curse
The act of their pleasure, there where the water flows.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.
Sign up for a free account and read any five pieces a month.
Previous
Next