All along the way we find the pieces.
Pieces to build with,
All again, all new,
The ideas found in old dreams,
Where paths uncurl,
Into ways we dreamed back then.
Long ago, those days almost passed.
Those dreams still living in corners,
Where dust collects on the places we meant to go,
Before summer’s gentle fog,
Passes over and leads us down other paths.
But still, here they are
Little pieces scattered.
Waiting for this time now.
Your soft hand to cradle it,
And ask me if I remember.
Chatterings, whisperings, callings, maybe even a yell from down below or far above – the conversations come from every direction before the moon can clear the trees and tell a different story. Here in the dark, the moving water is a mystery – carrying itself into every space around as it slides over pebbles, between willow shoots around bends. Water seems to spread everywhere leaving us fearful of the next step falling into some clatter box of wet sounds. Now there is just voice. An incessant dialogue of those stones, trees and almost silent pools carries on. Sit and listen and the voices pulse in imagined unison, small sounds turn on and off. Upstream, the fast water rushing over boulders loses its voice over the water curling around the submerged log in the middle of the pool. Turn downstream and the gravelly riffle below comes to life telling its own story. All this will be different under the moonlight. All this will change with sunrise. But right now there is only the sound of water caressing the earth.
Perhaps the ingredients are falling into place for an extended wet period. A developing low south of the parent aleutian low, a relaxing of the downstream ridge over the continental US, high pressure over Kamchatka and the push of mid-latitude storms helped by warmer than average sea temperatures. We can hope. 
Hushed light painting a still December afternoon
A place where morning can never quite conclude.
Where the hills sit in long rows, waiting for something to call.
.
Somewhere here, a trail always searched for, old rusty sign dangling from the same branch,
Waiting to rattle on the next wind. Just like it always was.
Along the rocky slope, through the oak trees, and onto the more gentle grassy slope below,
So much more to trudge.
.
Little paths wander through the bunch grasses
Dried and standing tall, golden celebration of summer
On this eve of winter’s arrival.
Captured in a moment of exhale where nothing stirs.
A new dream now, with the old things scattered around.
.
There you lay, quietly trembling in tears
Falling and sliding down a long blade of grass
Maybe the only rain, this time.
You might lay here for a thousand years, finally letting the long grassy wands bend over,
To offer you comfort,
Or to cry with you.
.
Further down the trail, an old stone fence,
moss-covered, where the old men once sat swapping secrets
Told a dozen times over while the grass scratched and swayed
On a late August breeze
Letting in a moment of quiet to their familiar banter.
Usually, it never starts with a dream
The dream meticulously sculpted into an expectation
So perfect that the cries of ecstasy roar along the river
Erasing any hope of stillness that might have been there
Had nothing ever been imagined in the first place.
.
Hmmmph
.
Usually it never starts with that first sight
That look into perfection that never was dreamed any better
Better than last time, but only to be washed away
With enthusiasm misplaced and gone awry
In manic flailings trying to capture it all in one fell swoop.
.
Ohhhhh
.
Sometimes, admittedly, it might start with a splash of apathy
Because it has to be done and here we are
And along the way it becomes the dream
And the perfection reveals itself in little debates
Comparing this to that and wondering if this is even better.
.
Oooooohhhhh
.
Always, though, a script unfolds, eluding time’s wicked arrow
Bathed in a moment eluding any grasp of perfection
Surrounded by silent calls and responses each asking nothing
Together, creating the pulsing song of a mid-winter river.
…..Just right here………………….All along this place…..
…..Then and now………………….The same story told…..
…..All through this place………..Today in yesterday……
…..Down there……………………..Years ago………………
…..And behind……………………..This sidewalk………….
…………………………………………………………………….
…..Almost like now………………..The youth……………..
…..Barely a thought………………..The age……………….
…..For a second…………………….The excitement………
…..Just like then……………………A years’ long now……
……………..Walking by this place……………..
………………..Just now, as then………………..
…………………….A moment…………………….
………………Here in the long now…………….
No Quandries on Solitude
They were hooking fish at the Holmes hole this morning – at least the boatmen were and I probably could have worked the run up top and easily tripled my odds of hooking fish. They were probably all salmon anyhow, and I really wanted a chrome bright early running winter fish. I went downstream to a decent piece of water that rarely gets fished, had it to myself and even connected with fish, though not of the species I was after. Later, I went down river to a piece of water I had always eyed through an opening along the road. It has always been one of those gotta-try-it-one of-these-days spots and I finally got around to doing it. Once again I had the water to myself and even landed a small steelhead. Finally, I finished up the day by driving down around near Weymouth to see how all the redneck hardware chunkers had done for the morning. Sure enough, they had gotten a few and I couldn’t help but think that nobody probably fished the faster, steelhead water up top all day. I moved on towards home, content in finding a few pieces of water to myself rather than bellying up to the chew-spittin’ parking lots that mark a few of the more popular places along the river.
I had some stuff to work through in my head, which some alone time would allow me to attempt. But, as is so often the case, I didn’t find any resolution on my own, so maybe some time spent with the Copenhagen sages of Weymouth could have been an option. Still, though, there is nothing like being able to methodically work down through a piece of water without waiting for someone else to pull out, or getting cut off, or just forced to stay put. I haven’t done that in years and I suspect I’ll be doing even less in the years to come. I probably won’t be calling with stories of twenty fish days, and when it does happen, nobody will believe me. Because nobody will have been around to see it.
Quick river note:
Both of the inland rivers were coming up this morning – I saw it before I left but went anyways – little did I know that they hadn’t really started rising yet. By the time I arrived the rivers were full of leaves, algae and bankside detritus being entrained. My plan to go upstream backfired, as it just got worse. A big slide somewhere up Supply Creek blew out the lower river completely. When I got home, I saw that both rivers rose about a foot while I was there and just now starting to crest late this evening. One incidental fish was landed.
Given the forecast for relatively rain-free days ahead, things should be ideal all of this week – I should probably go fishing…
Soft afternoon sneaks under morning’s hold
Faint breeze hoisting tiny bits of almost forgotten summer
Save for a little dry stick along the path
Snapping under foot, cracking into the damp green new grass
And carried along on the breeze.
Gentle, slumbering afternoon for remembering a thousand other places
Just like now.
When this breeze might ruffle the curtain of summer’s open window
Or spoil the warmth of spring’s first day
Or maybe whisper “Here I come” on the edge of winter.
And this afternoon falls into the long hold of night
Long after the breeze passes to those other times
Where the morning, the night, the day
All hang in one long breath
Shaken Rain 