December on the Eel

Here,

Moored

By the soft calling turns

Of a river now purposed by rain,

We can linger in that patient lapse

Between the miseries of drought

And the sudden electricity of flood.

.

The Copenhagen-spitting sages of Weymouth,

And the oared helmsmen at High Rock,

Hiding in their closet cigarettes,

Share chit chat smiles of angst

In the nervous dawn light

While the Chinook-crazed bankies

Debate spoon and roe.

.

And a distant figure

Heaves arcing bright lines

Through shadowy secret boils

And long greasy slicks

In a solitary reverie

Of far-fetched feathered hopes.

.

This is far removed

From the life-gone-easy days of,

say, June,

The routines of August,

Or the Sunday light

After a passing April rain

Reminded us all things

Eventually come back to this time.