A Lone Angler

A lone angler carefully posed

on the seam where river and shore

fold into each other: heavy gray

ballast placed to seat a bridge,

iron current undulating.

From a distance this scene looks

flat as a moth-eaten tapestry.

Only the spinning rod poised

with predatory tension suggests

the dynamic of the moment.

I photograph this tableau because

the hunched figure reminds me

of my father posed by the Scantic

with his old green fishing vest

soiled with fish-smut and silt.

I still wear that vest sometimes

when I want to hair-shirt myself

into submission. The man

patiently waiting for bluegill

or perch to tickle his bait

doesn’t sense me watching him,

his focus absolute unless

he’s drowsing in rinsed-out colors,

the way we do when desperate

with boredom we bring on ourselves.

The shadow of the far shore laps

the picture with symbolic threat.

Something’s always creeping toward us,

if only an extra shade of dark

to overlap our private fears.

Rain will begin soon. The angler

will rise all creaky and stretch,

then reel in his monofilament

and stash his bait for next time

when the bigger fish are biting.           

He won’t feel he’s been photographed

and wouldn’t care because

the river has already stolen

most of his soul, leaving hardly

a shadow for the world to see.