I stop to rest on a fallen tree
beside the tumbling stream
and smoke a berry flavored cigarillo.
I have climbed the long winding trail,
and flipped a clever winged
and hackled hook at every promising pool.
The trout are adorned in fiery fall colors.
I have netted perhaps a dozen
and gently released each,
to minimize my sin.

Today is a good day. I want to stay here.
In the spring, fishermen could marvel
at the clean white bones, abandoned and strewn.

But it cannot be.
The park ranger would find my car and come for me.
And what a chore for those poor men,
to drag my lifeless lump down that dark winding trail.
Late for their dinners, their waiting wives.
No, I cannot stay here, and besides, it isn’t my time.

Ohhh, I rise,
to a complaining back!
But my legs are strong and
they carry me quickly down
in the coming night.

It is deep and satisfying,
this bodily tired.
The engine fires on the first crank,
I pour a cup from the thermos,
and drive it home.

06/17/2009

Author's Note: ...with dignity, like a native American, before we wrecked their culture...

Posted on 06/18/2009
Copyright © 2026 David Hill