For three miles (or is it four?)
Time and earth suspend a perfect piece of Maury Mountains Canyon Creek
I come each Fall to hunt
But more to see the sacred nine-inch King of the Road One Hundred Culvert Pool
I drop an orange salmon egg
And see the sacred trout snatch and gulp and disappear again
So quickly I could doubt the trout exists
A perfect piece of Maury Mountains Canyon Creek
Replete with cattle trail, a dying mountain spring its head, a desert gully for a tail
I flip another salmon egg for proof the sacred trout still lives
In this perfect piece of Maury Mountains Canyon Creek
(I hope the reader will forgive the layout of the poem. I just don’t know how to mess with stanza form on this blog system. Might have to learn how one of these days. Maybe. If I decide it matters enough.)
I often think the fabric of our lives consists of small pleasures…birds at the feeder, a good morning cup of coffee, a favorite song, a hug from our spouse or our grandkids. The Fall hunt is like that for me: a campfire, a good cup of coffee, golden mantle squirrels (chipmunks) snatching peanuts from a stump, camp robbers, good friends, the smell of pine needles. (I haven’t killed a buck in years, but I have let several walk away.)
An old friend of mine hunted for several years with an empty rifle. The rifle was just an excuse to take a walk in the woods. I do understand.
Rod
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