We climb the mountainside,
cast in the gray midday shine
of northern autumn light.
The leaf-lined path unwinds
before us, broken by stream rush—
a babbling chorus
of thin, silvery creeks,
each singing its own clear song,
melodies simple, fresh, and long,
descending where they meet
least resistance.
Meanwhile, hiker after hiker passes us,
sporting bulky boots and fishing gear,
all sheened by pure persistence.
“Are there fish up there?”
we ask, and each man says
they “sure hope there is.”
Rainbow trout,
one boy explained,
might, might,
live up in the lake.
So with blind hope, men climb
the musical terrain—
playing quite the game of chance,
for if the fish do swim up there,
the men still need luck
to catch.
pm poetry 