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The Lake
On this return
he found the lake water
darker than before, as if the water
were laced with iron,
tailings perhaps from a nearby mine.
He searched the tree line,
noted desiccated trees
fallen along the shore,
saw the beach eaten away,
a line of foam lapping at the sand.
He went out early,
fished until the fog
burned off, rested
in the morning stillness
until his bobber was lost
in the glint of early light.
He watched a loon
fish in the distance,
an eagle hunt above
the trees. His back, his shoulders
warmed to the sun like a box turtle
basking on a log. He removed
his vest, and sat there
watching the lake waken
like an old lover he'd completely
forgotten about.
On family vacations
in those early years growing up
that first glint of the lake
through the pines, the perfumed
breath of the northwoods
caused such excitement, built upon
a whole year’s anticipation
for northern pike that fought
hard and long after countless hours
spent in an old wooden boat,
and once a muskie, not quite legal,
but still its eyes spun hate
and the treble hooks cut deep
into his hand as he unhooked
the long, angry muscle of fish—
a final lunge and it was gone,
and the years are gone, and the fish
smaller, the fishing more tedious,
more like a chore he put off doing
as a young boy until his mother
forced the issue on penalty of some restriction.
He no longer ties his own flies,
crafts his own lures; his reels,
once religiously cleaned and oiled,
now run gritty and dry.
And the hooks once sharpened
in that familiar ritual
repeated like a prayer season after season
now collect a dull corrosion.
One lone, unwanted crappie
brought the thought of cleaning,
gutting, washing knife and cutting board,
and even this reward for breakfast
consumed too much and so he let it go
and motored in to eggs, a soft chair,
a magazine slick with ads and articles
on how to make your money grow
and grow for years like this,
everything safe, and easy and comfortable,
money growing like duckweed
on his favorite, sheltered bay.
Dale Ritterbusch |
