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03/12/12 - (3)
The Last of the Ice-Fishing Shacks
All day, I wait, with the patience of an ice fisherman Hovering over a hole he's drilled through twenty inches of hope, Wait for the rain to dissipate, quit, disappear back into the sky, So that I might tie, tightly, the laces of my jogging shoes And take to Lake Nebagamon's two rivulet-trickling main streets.
By three-thirty, the clouds seem to have emptied their reservoirs, Refilled them, with soft, dry, white light, Which translates into a brisk late-afternoon hike The length, breadth, and depth of this winter-weary village, Where, not two weeks ago, eighteen inches of snow exploded.
Now, only traces of that drifting inundation remain, And they're rapidly draining, at gravity's behest, to water's edge, Warmth causing the ice to pull away, a foot or so from shore. Along my path, I pass the last of the ice-fishing shacks, Hauled up, at the municipal boat landing, by pickup trucks.
The residents of this northern Wisconsin village are bewildered By spring's too-rapid encroachment; Indeed, this March 12 thaw may have ominous consequences. Yesterday's 63 degrees could portend a June, July, and August That will turn the lake into a hotel's heated swimming pool.
03/12/12 - (3)
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