a sun's breadbasket warmth arises,
to sleep of grey in morning eyes
as lake seems unshockingly quiet.
Mouths of trembling hunger
leave bubble scraps, we're here, maybe not.
And the smoking lake perspires, and
rises gently at still yawning, crisp morn.
As the fishies on their biorhythm clock, somehow,
stomach howling for more,
dance with the ripples,
this limbo tease of sensuous bait.
As we gather-in, like sardines in a
patched-up, cheerless rowboat,
worms itching to get out, and about,
making its statement known
on the premise of the day.
Breath with wintergreen twinge
warms eager hands, to get the show
on the road, somehow.
Past all the foggy stop signs
of lake's mysterious, playful scent,
we know better!
As cast-iron skillet tanned in lard,
to render in its meal
this survival gymnastic of a sporting skill
is tapped into.
slumbering appetites as family applauds,
how the meal really got there
the gladness upon its arrival.
Upturned smiles of day's hide and seek catch
from smoking lake,
ingesting its aura
to eager mama's potbelly stove.
This stroll of its experience
from pinecones exhaling
on distant shore,
a constant changing
this silent, giant audience around me.
A daydream of its memory,
a marathon of the five senses
from without to the realm within,
a real part of me.