ROLLED UP JEANS
ROLLED UP JEANS
Me with my rolled up jeans,
A fourteen-year-old again,
And sneakers wet
And stocking cap
And fishing rod to boot.
Built a bridge today, we did,
My Lady Of The Streams and I,
Logs across the water tip to bank,
Pulled hard from tangled riverjam
While standing braced and balanced
On a timber giant laid
Among these tumbling stones
For the least a half a century,
Barkless, slickskinned, blackwet shiny.
Crossed the bridge and fished
(As others will, I trust),
Each shady hole a promise to behold,
A mystery-dance with Nature,
Catching nothing,
Standing wet in rain,
And laughing with the hoot
Of rushing mountain water-roar.
(Cottonwood Creek, beyond Lake San Cristobel, near Lake City, Colorado.)