Dry Flies

The pond opened in the woods
Like the stillness inside me
A pregnant absence
Where all that surrounds
Sounds
In the hallowed hollow
Where meaning
Meets the lack of need for meaning

Those waters waited
For winter
Single bird cries died
Far within the forest
An hour apart
A red squirrel chattered the perimeter
Unanswered, all short day long
The faintest flutter
Of a dragonfly, paper dry
Was quelled by the quiet
And the distant roar in trees
Promised white sleep in the wind

I tried a Wooly Bugger
A Bead Head and a Muddler’s
Maybe a man with finer fingers
And more hours learning lakes
Could have coaxed dinner from thosedepths
But I quit early
Not disappointed by slack line
But certain that place
Offered only a cache
Of summer echoes to catch

I put away hope
Of finding August in October
And kept my dry flies dry

11.2.07

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