I have been enshrouded for months
by the weak winter sun, so weak
you can stare into the face of it
without hurting your eyes and see the fire
veins in its body. It is stupidly
human to rush the season. The boy
cleans up his trout equipment. Only two
more months to the fishing opener
and the dry flies and streamers
are impatiently waiting. Seventy-seven
years of weak winter sun, the lake
frozen over with several feet of ice. The moon
glowing once without a trace of heat.
