we mount a few rocks by mistake.

A bit more embarrassing than most of our

foolishness, true–

but so what?

The power of the imperative

coupled with the law of averages

virtually guarantees enough will get it right

to make more brains to be made up

about exactly what steps to take

toward what we think we need to do

on this stony journey between delusion and mirage–

when to move, how to use our dreams–

a journey where we finally learn

freedom is not a choice

a brain is free to choose.

Fortunately, my warty friend,

the soul is built to cruise.

Fishing Devil’s Hole at the Peak of Spring

From the top of Temple Ridge

to the South Fork of the Gualala

it’s all downhill,

the first half-mile so steep

I wouldn’t have time for a decent scream

before splattering against

one of the redwoods whose tops loom below,

a remnant stand of old-growth

the terrain has spared from logging.

Praying it will spare me too,

I descend

carefully, carefully, feet

planted sideways,

waving my rod case for balance

like some moronic progeny

of Izaak Walton and a Flying Wallenda,

work my way, stab and dig,

down and then some into Devil’s Hole,

utterly certain which orifice

inspired the gorge’s name,

just as certain there must be an easier way;

down till the slope finally relents,

relatively gentles

as I pass through the trees,

their vibrant new-growth glossy in the early light,

then down easy

and across the alluvial terrace meadow

clotted with sun-cups, poppies, blue-eyed grass,

purple blooms of wild iris

lurid as a pornographer’s sense of romance;

down to the river.

Sneakers and Levi’s,

I wade right in, flicking

a Gold-ribbed Hare’s Ear I tied myself

to the riffle above the pool,

following it as it sinks,

bellies with the flow,

drifts…

my mind drifting beyond it,

downstream where the durable curve of water

has undercut an azalea-shaded bank,

and I’m trying to imagine what swoon of fragrance

might be loosed

from the light-drenched flowers

when the sun touches them about three hours from now,

and wondering whether it would be wise to wait

or better just to imagine and move on,

so when the trout strikes I miss it by five minutes,

and despite a dozen delicate, dedicated casts,

damned if I can bring him again.

No matter. It’s a magnificent morning,

three miles of river to my climb-out at the bridge,

and if that azalea cut-bank isn’t a lunker’s dream home

I don’t know diddly about fishing

and should give it up on the spot–

chuck my rod in this emerald pool

and devote myself hereafter

to scholarly articles on Norwegian grammar,

lavishing on the future-conditional tense

passion now reserved for luring fish into the present.

When I turn to wade the rocky shallows

back to better footing on the gravelly river-bar,