From the young birch lining the far shore
the crows called, erupted into the sky
out of the yellow leaves, flurried there,
fell back. The sun was high,
everything in perfect order on the raft,
the anchor rope in a tight spiral, weighted
by the scarlet coffee can half-filled
with cedar-smelling loam
from the swamp's edge. He spilled
a handful onto the rough pine
of the deck, threaded a worm, let it down,
careful it didn't snag, until the line
went slack, and he thought the lead
had touched bottom, drew it up a bit,
then waited, leaning over, trying to see
into the shadows among the twists
of pickerel weed, the light
where it touched the water going green,
slanting down into the weed beds, silvery
with dusts and pollens. Over the clean
sand bottom schools of yellow perch,
bluegill, redear, lavender and flash
of shiners, waver and ripple of light,
shorts bursts of gold and green
where the young bass fed. But nothing
happened, nothing. He waited for a bite,
and when he looked up his eyes
dazzled at the sky. It was as if he still
were looking into water, for the sun
was low, and a green light rose
from among the cedars. His mother stood
on the beach and called, but he chose
not to hear, though she called and called.
At last he looked up and saw her there
farther off than he thought,
her dress blowing, her feet in deep sand.
So he began to paddle back, the raft
wanting to turn in circles, the wind
opposing him. So he stood and leaned
into the paddle, dug heard, looked up again
and saw the beach was empty, the lake
ruffling, the water gone dense
and steely. It took him more time
than he'd thought he had to get back. It was not
as if truly he'd had a choice - the wind
had turned against him, and when
he stared into the water his face
did not look back. He felt the rain begin.
and while he struggled toward the beach
his mother came back and took a photograph
that caught the raft low down in the chop
seeming a powerful distance from shore,
and him, paddle in hand, the birch
on the far shore bristling up from the snowy sand,
everything badly overexposed - it frightened him to see
how far out on the lake he'd been.
He was frightened not to see
his face, but only a dark shape
under the hat brim. Even though
it had been in Klondike in St. Marie's General Store
where he'd stood to hold and see the photograph,
to his bare feet the plank floor solid, dry
and gritty, it hadn't been at all
certain that the foolish one in the photograph
wasn't slowly sinking into the lake, endangered
and alone, calling out to the mother who stood intent
her camera to her eye, framing him there,
catching the birches, the crows overhead,
the lake rising on him - somehow the fishy air
gathering, the sky gathering, around him
the deepening smell of cedar before rain
the blue surge of lightning for the moment withheld.
~ John Engles
