from freezing fingers off our fished-out hands.
Today's trip testing Priest Lake alone
netted his limit of poison,
not nearly as much fun as bringing in
three Dolly Varden now untended,
glass-eyed beside the vacant boat.
I wish for Montana twilight, we both
shivering back the day's rainbows
eager fighters jumping against the sky,
fierce competitors for royal coachmen
arced toward their stream --
invitation to exchange
icy creek for burlap creel.
Night flames took crackling hold,
licked lodge pole twigs gray with age.
I roughed his hair, brushed fire-red cheeks,
let loose laughter that followed ash
to coolness in the floating smoke.
His chest rises, dives deep
in this struggle to keep life.
I hook his hand in mine,
squeeze and release with each faint breath.
At times I see sparks
sputtering against the night sky.