Bear Mountain Morning
The whispered crack of fishing rod and line
whips through the morning air
where sleepy clouds rest on the mountain's back –
I, too, recline upon a ledge of rock
and watch a lone duck break the looking glass
of Hessian's face, dipping beneath
into some other land.
Three children stand watch on the greengrass bank
impaling earthworms on a sunglint barb,
and if you let your eyes drift halfway closed
– just so –
the speckled sunlight fills the lake like
falling snow or sparkling dragonflies.
I settle back into my stony cot
and feel my waking bones drink in
the Maytime gold that slowly bakes my skin,
and watch a painted turtle family
rest on a log that stretches lazily
into the shallows from a wooded bank.
A chipmunk peeks out from behind a tree
where unseen spiders left their silken flag,
and all the while the quiet waters lap
in rhythmic cadence on tree and rock
– whispering to me in long forgotten tongue
of Indian gods and dreams of summer deer.
A splash of movement splits the deep green peace
in violent angles from the water's sheen
– a bite –
a reedy boy bends back against the sun,
reel cranking fast, line taut with spasmed strain.
A speckled crappie
halfgrown like himself, flops on the shore a bit
before he's tossed back in the folded coolness
of the looking glass.
Walking home, the friendly smell of barbeques
floats on the lake, mixes with moss and pine,
as families gather on the southern rim
and children's birdsongs welcome in the noon.
Hessian Lake, May 10, 2015
[All rights reserved - used with permission]
Michael Pendragon biography