 |
 |
|
| Grayling North country suits you; you raise your flag-fin to it, bright banner to steady your way through blue-gray pools lanced by sun at midnight. Your home waters could lull a man to death in a quarter hour, steal his breath degree by cold degree while you, indifferent, plucked a gnat from the surface with a quick-silver caress. But the gnat turns sharp, takes hold in your arctic flesh with a twist and sting. Strong, too, its tiny wings towing you relentlessly towards the shallows. Then you are aloft, scooped skyward in a prison of twine. Thymallus, he names you, for the scent of thyme that rises faintly from your flanks as you lie in his creel, caught. Comments? |
| A poem from Seven Beasts, by Adam Joshua Sass |
|