The Knot

Cigar smoke and dead fish wrapped in grass
drying, dying
death repulses me in this sport of blood

A hundred degrees and I walk on
across this field
this blank expanse of pressed and yellow cheat grass

Through the distant red gate
and it’s down to the river
you must go down to the river

The slow impatience of tying knots
fingers clumsily clutching at the last thread
the final remnant to be placed

But the river is just the same
cold clear
the sun beats back from the deep green surface

Rocks gather weeds
remaining in place
rocks form seams of light and slack water

Lighting not so good
lightly feeling the distant bottom
careful, don’t fall on them now

A dip, a turn
momentary
too lazy to be worth more

The slow impatience of untying knots
unweaving mistakes of the short-term past
sitting back to the stream, burning

I could cut the line
the connection between fly and rod
feather and graphite

I could sever this moment and turn my back on it
stand and move on
this sun’s too hot

But still my fingers turn
over and under
guiding a blind man with touch, feel

The river speaks
benign indifference
neither taunting nor encouraging

It simply is
and will be
long after the knot is not

It lingers in my mind
a certain pull of current
the course, the cottonwood bank a permanent boundary

It simply is
the knot simply is for now
a nest between my hands

Sitting on an exposed stone
legs in the slack light of water
eyes tired now from the sun

A dark shape moves down from the upstream
spooked, it runs
brushes my foot, blind strength focused

The last loop to be undone
you open everything that can be opened
and the knot falls away as if it never were

Now I leave the task complete
the heavy haze of a hundred degrees
grass grown in knots beneath the sun

I’m thinking, two paths diverged across the field
both were well-used, so I took the left one
and it made no difference.