At evening an old angler
greets us in rolled sleeves
and gestures past the lake he comes up from:
yonder long folds of earth rising.
Snow deep down the sides clear through June,
he says, proud like he’d snowed it himself.
Now only peak shadows hold white
Bridgeheads for winter.
A still face, creased below white wisps.
A slight purling wash
plays the bound of pebbled shore.
Gnat clouds at pier’s end
as the cool sets in.
You, sprightly, here and there,
with your camera, seeing pictures;
I’m braiding these lines to hold us fast.
Film full, page full:
our crafts to fuse the hour through
to hours that come, prepared for here.
This served up to look on, then,
in albums, catching this waning light.