Went up in the morning
to the broken stone creek
with the Indian wind singing
and the creek water cold
and scant of fish.
Didn't hear a single warning or cry
just an old voice or two
as I stretched out
slow and lazy
with a pole and a can of real worms
and waiting, fished.
In the afternoon a man came up the trail
hands in his pockets
he stood silent at first
not looking at me but up the mountain
to where the trail peters out
along the high ridge.
He'd brought news
and though I was tempted to run him off
I listened,
really I had little choice
as he told tales of the world
in a voice that wasn't happy and wasn't sad.
He continued up the ridge
and I packed up my pole
upturned the can of worms by the creek's edge
and headed back down toward town
to see about what I'd heard.
Still planning to get back up
just haven't had the chance.
Still waiting.
~1980’s