Ice Fishing

We are little black dots on the lake
       milling about a hole in the ice,
               stomping our feet for circulation,
watching our lines for tension.
               gray sky, gray ice, gray snow.
January’s long lull, frozen tundra,
           the only noise a distant car
                   on the ivy road. The trains are detained,
planes grounded.

The quiet trickles into our bones
       bangs around like a caged bird
              like the one I hear now— its qi-qi
punctuates sky with end dots.

Today I’m wishing for an exclamation point
       or at least a question mark,
                something to look forward to, something to ponder,
                      or maybe I just need an ice axe
and an invisible line beneath the surface,
                               a sinker, a lure.

I open the tackle box: hooks, bobbers, swivels,
        floaters, corks, spinners,
                worms and grubs, cheeseballs,
                      salmon eggs

We are little black dots on the lake
                milling about a hole in the ice.