childhood trunk
the old flybox full
of Blue Charms

Fishing has been my savior, and still is. No matter how hard the memories may seek to surface, the sound of a river always soothes. Doused in the scent of moss and stones, I can simply close my eyes. Nothing can touch me. No one can break my bones.

This morning, on this vast river, I slid four chrome bars back into the water before noon. The floes that welcomed us at the start of the week have now collapsed to slush. Yet still the salmon run. Two bears came to call at lunch, and left. And on the far bank a wolverine stalked frantically back-and-forth—how I Iove the safety of a torrent.

But now, back at the lodge, I thaw my hands in a bowl of water. I don’t need drink on a night like this. And so I leave the others to their demons, walk barefoot into the woods, toward a cabin leaking steam. The door creaks open to a blast of heat. I am alone, in the present. There is no past.

a sudden chill
deep in the banya—
birch twigs

Bio: Lew Watts