03-19-2016, 11:38 AM
Wheat Sweat
Our bridge is the belly
of a railroad car.
The underside wedged
into the manmade bank
of rif-raf and concrete
rising fifteen feet above
Dupuyer Creek.
One quiet trout is found
in his spot between
the rocks each day
as we run down the
gravel hill to throw rocks
into the waters.
We are not allowed
to step over the crack
in the boards
a foot from the edge.
Our jelly-shoed feet
will keep us safe if
we throw our rocks from
a distance.
We try to hit the fish
while he is making his
valiant life effort
in the warming,
evaporating water.
Rocks never hit him;
he is too fast,
the underwater cave
too close.
He was not there this summer.
We lie on our stomachs
over the edge that our feet
could not cross.
No, after an hour
of no rocks he is still
not there.
Maybe the hot July sun
finally got to him.
The winds that dried the protein
from the shriveled wheat heads
in my father’s fields
must have been too much
for him too.
The creek that once ran
over its banks now
has islands. Maybe trout
traveled to a new pool
and could not make it back
to the bridge shade.
Maybe we will find him
next spring when the
snow pack run-off
will be close to average
and the April showers
come back.
Maybe.
Our bridge is the belly
of a railroad car.
The underside wedged
into the manmade bank
of rif-raf and concrete
rising fifteen feet above
Dupuyer Creek.
One quiet trout is found
in his spot between
the rocks each day
as we run down the
gravel hill to throw rocks
into the waters.
We are not allowed
to step over the crack
in the boards
a foot from the edge.
Our jelly-shoed feet
will keep us safe if
we throw our rocks from
a distance.
We try to hit the fish
while he is making his
valiant life effort
in the warming,
evaporating water.
Rocks never hit him;
he is too fast,
the underwater cave
too close.
He was not there this summer.
We lie on our stomachs
over the edge that our feet
could not cross.
No, after an hour
of no rocks he is still
not there.
Maybe the hot July sun
finally got to him.
The winds that dried the protein
from the shriveled wheat heads
in my father’s fields
must have been too much
for him too.
The creek that once ran
over its banks now
has islands. Maybe trout
traveled to a new pool
and could not make it back
to the bridge shade.
Maybe we will find him
next spring when the
snow pack run-off
will be close to average
and the April showers
come back.
Maybe.