In a mist-kissed hollow of the mitten’s palm,

where rainy runoff of the Chippewa hides

two tracks for two kids splat in the autumn mud,

young friends with a fishing hole to find.

Churned clouds of dark gray and lightning forebode

a storm to break the banks and flood the valley,

above unheeding minds fixated on a rumor

of an ancient sturgeon swum upstream tagged with a reward.

No finer thing I’ve never thought nor seen,

than an early morning raining, a cluster clump of clouds gushing

before the dawn light paints alabaster,

to wake with the sound of thunderclaps,

to sit easy by a drop-smacked window and

to watch the winds move fast through the trees,

warding off would-be anglers;

but travesty and tragedy found in a mist-kissed hollow,

two tracks for two kids ignoring the horizon,

their prize on their minds;

one swore they saw it, briefly,

a dark form of an old great fish moving slow through the shallows;

but no catch was made or reward claimed,

and when the storm raged loudest the hollow grew quiet,

limb and brow dragged undertow.