Driving a long
way after dark to get a child back from a spring sport. Fat flurries intrude
and disappear, intrude and disappear. No one else is on the road, few enough
even at home. Suddenly, lights where no lights should be—out in the middle of Tarbell
Pond. The white expanse of ice in the edge of my headlights fades to darkness,
and in the darkness, golden pinpricks, golden pearls, golden eyes of light, and
beside each one, its tender—his bucket, his augur, his sled. The ice fishers
are stealing one more night before their year ends.
End-of-winter
moon
hazy behind a
frozen
sky—fishes gaze
up.
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