(Sierra Summer Notebook, late August, Rock Creek Lake, 9,700 ft.)
Just past first light, we hike down to the lake,
slipping on snowmelt. You catch my elbow,
steady yourself.
The morning wind, robustly disinterested, pours over the ridgeline,
bruises blue waters into scallops with white fringe.
A sole Bald eagle carves the air, alert for trout or hare, all things in the instant
and about blood.
Today this shoreline is ours alone. The thin filament of our white lines and golden lures,
make for a moment of suspension—cast, arc and fall, two remote splashes.
When you shiver in the chill, I hand you my worn, down jacket.
Quick as that, our two rod tips begin to bow, subtle, tentative—
then decidedly strident. Hearts speed up.
After the netting, we clip each live rainbow iridescence
to our staked metal stringer. Let them tug and flop,
twisting in shallow waters a merciless while longer.
One swift knock to the skull
with the inevitable wooden priest and each fish gives a shiver
all along its length.
In the noon hike back to our cabin, we pant in oxygen-thin air.
White delicate flesh, lemon, butter, salt, dash of pepper, thyme
out of an iron skillet; roasted potatoes; asparagus spears.
Inyo County Coffee. Mine black. Yours thick with cream.
At the dining table, beyond our windowpane:
rust-barked pine, green leaves of aspen that tremble
for the sins of a past renunciation.
You and I, mute before the short life of leaves.
We shiver a little for ourselves.
All afternoon, sun braids through our bedroom blinds,
settles wave and particle upon our tossed-aside wool blankets, cotton sheets.
All afternoon, our turbulent cries of wholeness,
our deciduous iridescence,
our brief leap free from an inevitable netting.