by d.n. wright

1.
Autumn foliage not yet escaped
splits in circles as water
after the lure is received.

near perfect the toque sits
on the head of a Canadian painter.

birchpanel waits blank
in a box of brushes
thick with paint
and scents sweet
from dripping
pine.

fast approaching pinksalmon
sky spills in a pond distorted

by the Scottish grin,
crow's feet and low fog
of an old morning.

a fishbelly silverstreaked
on the surface
flutters a disturbance.

2.
The paddle glides eloquent
when guided by reflection;

fishing tackle hangs,
sliced river behind

the line skillfully caressed
by wake
from his canoe;

Tom Thomson... balanced
canoe sharp at dusktime... silent
slips through the water.

3.
Drifting southward to the distant
sound of ducks;

the fisherman casts his fly,
a homemade lure,
before a sparkle of blue
slips beneath water:

My opinions are limited
to my opinions on fishing:
it is not enough to cast your line,
one must always develop the lure;
the attraction that commits one to death.

4.
A hawk disturbs the uneven
ripples of Canoe Lake
as they bend trees into hooks;

a swift dive to the surface

claws out
pullup
snare... ascent.

the rings transpose,
collapsing a quickly matured
evergreen sawed only yesterday;
its stump left to bake.


5.
Brushes cleaned on the rock
just out of eyeshot;
the smell of rested oils
stills a breeze
sneaking in offshore.

beyond the old bridge
loggers skip stones
waiting for the fall run
to spear wood as flesh
through Tea Lake dam.

sunset brilliant,
a rustorange descent,
where his red blankets hang
over fishing line unused.

6.
Moon high the aurora borealis
dances all darkness complete,
save for the shadow of an artist
furiously sketching,
paintboard up.

a tiny whitecap distrusts
the flicker of his fire
and catches the peppered
glow of a wolf's green eyes;

undisturbed the watcher
and gentle goes the water.

Source: Headlight Anthology, no. 2, 1999, pp. 28–31.