(Fishing I) My home far away is gutteral follows its own voice. Fish work their lips open and closed in the thin air of stone vaults. My father brings me to their meadow once a year. (Fishing II) The mountain speaks a language of deer runs, fish bones and berries; it cries at night shackled to rain. When old men fish they talk with drums sit together in cacoons and pray; their heads wave like trout. Young men stare. Like geese they seize the current in their mouths carry light upstream on their backs. (Klickitat Meadows) Into the water clutching a black-slimed trout. It coiled and uncoiled. My heat bled in a long rope downstream. We lay in the river’s wind under waving rocks. My father next day caught my fish and carried it down the mountain wrapped in leaves that smelled like vanilla. (Lenice Lake) Something breathes, the same that chips obsidian patiently awaiting your eyes. The sun is a loon at dusk with long sweeping wings, it bloodies the head of sagebrush and shatters the wing of other birds into rainbow. Night hawks beat the air. They have heard of the old earth that lives here.