Fiddle call while the summer sun sets
and those barking, fox like hounds
beating the morning birds alarm call.
The days like too much fun and freedom
pass fast like the whiskey flame eating
through dry rot.
And I'll sand that wood to bring out the beauty
she is, or could be, saw dust, and lacquer
shines like a dollar taxed till it coughs.
Black powder and venison on our plate,
fiddle call the hounds back to evening moon,
where at least they'll listen and earn their stay.
Trout over campfire flame, once on my fly
tied with pheasant feather and peacock.
small tippet, dry hackle, that damn fiddle
playing out like line drag,
in with careful pulls into my grandfathers wooden net.
All up high where the spruce tip
beer ferments and the people are poor
enough to build a truck up right and
not pay for firewood and play that fiddle call
way into a work night and appreciate a rain
enough to see those Birdsfeet flowers growin
over the Aspen tree roots.
Photo: Ponderosa pine tree pollen in a puddle of rain water by James Gagnon
Poem: "Those Hills" by James Gagnon
