by Charlotte Trumble
Anglers of seven and nine, Bobbers on our backs we will not use, we Carry our buckets, empty now, to fill, Dousing our palms, waggling fingers as bait. Eagle eyed or Freshly dead, minnows may attract a crowd, but left, will Grow sour like sweat and salt in wilting weather, so we Hasten to our bucket, Inject the ankle-biting rapids with Jokes and whimpers of a breeze that whisked us upstream, Kissing our backs with the spittle of a gummy riverbed. Languishing, under rocks and roots, Minnows work well in cooler waters. Noticing our sloshing steps, Oscillating, Pestered, they scatter, but I cannot Quiet the squelch of paired feet, embedded in Riverbed patterned in Sphalerite and sunstone splashed with Traces of failing light, peeks of August Untainted by hooks and nets, Vexed only by the lines on our toes Waterlogged and crinkle creased, Xeric but past the point of recall, Yearning to return with buckets full, a Zeal only anglers of seven and nine may hold.