August 6, 2020

Fishing Hut

gray smoke thick and hanging mack truck heavy
in the breathless windless air
old fishing hut dilapidated abandoned
caught fire now smoking orange embers gray lifeless ashes
rods reels tackle boxes most likely
lightning- spontaneous combustion
the wrath of god- fish terrorists
years of shelter for fishermen coming in from the rain
warming up after a session of ice fishing 
beers shots camaradic laughter
but they grew old, infirmed or died
the young didn’t walk in their shoes or waders 
so the hut was like many old people—abandoned
spring showers—summer storms—inches of winter snow
sleeping quietly white blankets on the little roof
until spring when it dripped off in drips and drops
mothers milk to the newborn grass that the temperate march had fathered
now alas just a pile of burned wood
to be wheelbarrowed away or most likely thoroughly burned
in a june or july evening campfire complete with 
hot dogs, marshmallows, jelly pies
sing-a-longs, ghost stories, gazes at the moon
slightly drunk uncles who dress funny and laugh too loud
at their own jokes and stories
teenagers who in their angst would rather be somewhere else
smoking or drinking
one day though they too shall grow old 
longing for younger innocent nights around a fire
instead of being burdened with real life

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