Black Joe Lake


read by tim murphy

It’s a hard hike.  Not a ride,

the climb to Haystack Mountain.

I used needle-nosed pliers

to flatten the barb on my fly.

The trout wouldn’t quit hitting.

A gale was at my back,

and oh, could I fling that fly.

I switchbacked down the mountain

with cutthroat in my creel,

glissading down the snow.

I was aloft, afloat.

Remembering that, I feel

young again and strong,

singing a Ronstadt song.

At the tent my brother goat

dug out the lemon pepper

and olive oil from his pack.

I recall Trout Amandine

poached on the just-west side

of Wyoming’s Great Divide

before we hit the sack.

Syrdal
 

read by tim murphy

 Steve and I were young together,
 birds of the self-same feather
 and a like Norwegian bed,
 and each of our heads was red.
 His turned a different color.
 It took on the silver pallor
 of the newly fallen snow
 we tread wherever we grow,
 the silver of an ice fog
 or the chin beneath a black dog
 with so many miles to go.