Arts + Scene » Poetry

All is Well



Golden hot fields of grasshoppers
always one jump ahead,
flying hard into high weeds
safe from my uncle's cupped hand
and the rusty
bait can
in his vest pocket.

Lie low and silent in the high grass.
Escape the purpose of fishing poles
and hooks.

Avoid cold creek water
and the wary old trout
longing for fat bugs.

Hunter and hunted.
One thing becoming another,
incredulous until the very end.

Let there be grace
in the face of swirling
under the spell of
water and sky and earth and
the smell of new willows
rooted along the bank.

From the trees' perspective,
all is well.

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