--Robert Mitchum (after fishing with H. Bogart)Rising early to beat the heata little dry from last night’s booze.We’re soon out miles from land wherethe big fish roam under the sunand stars, undisturbed by time’swave-measured march.Slicing bonito for bait, the blood isred against all the blue. Blue aboveand below. The hook, hungering formeat, shines blue in my hand asI drop its feathered plume into the wake.We drink beer and wait for the line to sing,rattling off the reel like a runaway train,tightening under the drag, burning the leather stop.The marlin leaps, its bill skewering the sky,carves and dances in the blue, then twists and dives.The rod quivers in the belt. Leather biting my backI reel and pull, the marlin leaps again,I heave forward and rare back as firesweat and salt gather on my skinA moment’s slack, a shake, the fish is free.Why aren’t all losses as lovely as this?Quien sabe?”
2022-08-28
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment