Uplake five miles, or more, cat-scratch lightning
Tears and slices the charcoal Northern sky.
I’ve learned to wait, not rush too quickly for shore,
For after the presaging rain dimples the lake
And puffs of wind shiver across the water,
A gray-black calm creeps over me and hovers
While impending gusts, slant rain and the deadly storm draw near.
The lake’s eagle hides and croakers in the mud fall silent.
In these few moments I cast for one last bass
Pausing to catch at tigers in red weather,
Then reach for the oars and guide my boat to shore.
Jonathan A. Gates