I flee city, virus, loss,
spin, re-compass, choose west.
Forest, stream, sinuous, deep,
I camp, rig rod, fish. Cast Gray Ghosts

to the far side, expect no strike.
I begin to breathe, hope
hope revives. Presume zip, nada, zilch,
live frugally, on surprise.

I daydream I die, come back not old,
not spent, eager to learn to fish again.
The sun weighs down, light dives maroon
from gold. Dusk swallows tamarack,

aspen, cedar, pine. Riffles gone to eddies
swirl to black. I trace path back
to tent, the remains of fire,
accept dark coals, revel in the ebb.

– Timothy Pilgrim