by Douglas Lanzo
Copyright 2021

First published in Riverbed Review (January 16, 2022)

At dawn’s first light, one crisp September morning,
awakened by the tapping of gentle rain,
I rose with the mist as it dissipated into
pale golden light just outside my window,
sifted by the song of swamp sparrows,
luring me with a siren’s call
into the wilds of West Virginia,
onto a forest trail
treaded by black bears,
trampled by boars and
ruffled by grouse,
toward an unassuming creek,
armed with a pocket knife and
a fly fishing rod,
pan-fried visions
of seared brook trout
simmering in my mind,
as hues of gold, orange and burgundy
melted into chambered mirrors
of smooth-rocked eddies,
tumbling and gurgling past,  
dimpled by aquatic insects,
stirred by tails of trout,
and streaked by water striders.

The sound of water breaking
roused me from the feast of
colors and sound enriching
the succulent images
flowing through my mind,
as the stream pulsed
with the joy of otter pups
sliding whiskers-first into
refreshing, rain-flecked waters,
down slippery banks
stripped of muddied grass;
the otters dipped and rose
in playful jests just
as mother raised her
submerged head
from intent hunt
to savor their delight;

Oh, that I might capture
that fleeting moment
in my mind and heart
and store it there
to treasure.