Fishermen prefer shadow, but fish, the light.
I’ve watched sunlight clamber down the treeline
into a dark river now glittering gold.
Hours of fishermen, in their slow casting walk,
have come along and then gone. A few wave
but most don’t look away from the water,
their eyes reading the river’s surface.
I’d wanted to see a salmon caught
and watch it wrestle free,
both parties a bit victorious, both worse
for wear: fisherman proud and frustrated,
fish strengthened and scarred.
But morning holds back. Up in the cabin
I drink stove-burned coffee and wait
for something to learn. I watch a clock.
Out here I might need everyone
I came to get away from.
That’s why I come. To go back.
Photo by Matthias Oberholzer.