West Branch
The sweat wells up
inside like the innards
of a steam iron
let loose in my skin.
Children laugh and
talk loudly over
the tea ice stream--
rushing at logs
dragging streamers of branches
bouncing against the banks
erupting a scrim
of rushing sound
punctuated by rocks
lifted and dropped.
I long not for the
tug of trout,
but for the cool dark
water encapsulating
my body and stripping
the heat from inside
like sin from a Baptist.
Are you coming back this way?
Yes, I am.
If you catch any,
can we see your fish?
Yes, you may!
There’s a logjam.
A beaver dam?
No, just logs. Careful of
the bees.
The wind has
rushed at itself
these last two days.
Crushing north
and bruising south
wrangling in the tree tops
slashing back and forth
sounding battle
like a winter storm--
bringing nothing
but the stomping boots
of heat and humidity.
I wade deep into
the woods — past
the point of houses--
deep into the woods--
following the stream
pushing against the
current angling for
the firm rocky bottom and
dark cool water rising
around me.
The children’s voices
are gone now
buried in the sweep
of the stream, hidden
by the crescendo of
the tall woods thrusting
hard back and forth
like blades of swords.
Sheep Camp
July 2, 2005
Up North Series
©2005 West Branch— Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
inside like the innards
of a steam iron
let loose in my skin.
Children laugh and
talk loudly over
the tea ice stream--
rushing at logs
dragging streamers of branches
bouncing against the banks
erupting a scrim
of rushing sound
punctuated by rocks
lifted and dropped.
I long not for the
tug of trout,
but for the cool dark
water encapsulating
my body and stripping
the heat from inside
like sin from a Baptist.
Are you coming back this way?
Yes, I am.
If you catch any,
can we see your fish?
Yes, you may!
There’s a logjam.
A beaver dam?
No, just logs. Careful of
the bees.
The wind has
rushed at itself
these last two days.
Crushing north
and bruising south
wrangling in the tree tops
slashing back and forth
sounding battle
like a winter storm--
bringing nothing
but the stomping boots
of heat and humidity.
I wade deep into
the woods — past
the point of houses--
deep into the woods--
following the stream
pushing against the
current angling for
the firm rocky bottom and
dark cool water rising
around me.
The children’s voices
are gone now
buried in the sweep
of the stream, hidden
by the crescendo of
the tall woods thrusting
hard back and forth
like blades of swords.
Sheep Camp
July 2, 2005
Up North Series
©2005 West Branch— Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.