no. 8 (Todd Abrams)

I drop the cork and leave the line running
against a birch branch; misinformed
about the day's light, my last worm hanging
from the lip of the river
where if anything makes sense
I will pull a cold fish
from forest's vein and bring it to life
in a cast iron pan.
Drake's and an egg, the rest of the bottle,
the last of the June bugs smacking the screen.
An outboard motor somewhere in the distance
reminding us that even a red sun
is not a stop sign, on the Au Sable.