Monday, June 11, 2007

Floating

One of the writing groups I participate in publishes a word every Friday. You have 15 minutes to write about the word. I don’t know if any of you would like to participate. If so, let me know, and I’ll start publishing the word and rules here:

This weeks word was Floating

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With reverence she makes the cast. One quick upward motion and the slack line puddled at her feet is whipped off the water and into the sky. Stopping her hand an hour past noon the line unfurls against the cerulean blue – straightening out – until another downward chopping motion causes it to loop back onto itself.

Gently it floats to the water – mid-section touching first, followed by the leader – and finally the Rio Grande King fly lands. Settling on the water at the top of the see-through pool decorated with skimming water bugs, it glides along the water – slowly picking up speed as it skates toward the boulder and the water chute.

Fly swiftly moving now, she strips the slack – silently she encourages the fly to keep pace with the current. Down the chute it races into the pool below. There in the slower water, floating in the dappled afternoon light is the object of her quest.

Lazily propelling himself from sunlight to shade the trout examines his kingdom. Looking up – he sees the hapless meal drifting by his domain. Circling, round and round the pool, he considers his options.

Just as he decides to move – zip – up she takes up her fly.

Moving her wader-clad feet she settles to a new stance. Once again, the puddled line is ripped from the water around her legs and aerial born. Unfurling like a wave – it stretches behind, the sherbet-orange line uncurling extends. One quick thrust forward and the line moves past her head – another backhaul and it returns to uncurled behind her ear. Satisfied her delivery will be true, she stops the motion and brings the line forward one final time.

Settling on the water – soft as pussy-down, the Rio Grand King hits on the water chute. Sliding downwards, lazy, free, it finds the trout’s pool. She offers a prayer to the fish god … and the deity listens. Up from the depths flashes the rainbow-striped racer, jaws open toward the fly. He hits it hard, and dashes down. Quick with reflexes born of patience she sets the line – playing the fish throughout the water.

Tension on the line, tension in her shoulders, tension on her face. The game is played until one tires. Drawing the fish near, she declares victory. Scooping her hand into the water, she gently lifts him, removes the Rio Grande King, releasing the trout to float in his kingdom again.

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Here’s one written by Did_I_Do_That, which I like very much on last weeks word Autumn.

Autumn

Autumn is when I knew her.

I knew her well. I knew her best.

When the ground fell dormant and the sun grew short,

I knew her best.

Autumn is when I knew her.

Not in the winter. Not in the snowy cold.

I remembered the fall and it's days of fierce lust,

All lost in the snowy cold.

Autumn is when I knew her.

Spring brings new life. Spring brings hope.

While nature shook off her coat of gray cloud and white ice,

I sought new hope.

Autumn is when I knew her.

Summer heat came. Summer burned us out.

The days grew long and life ran rampant in chaotic growth,

The summer burned us out.

Autumn is when I knew her.

Fall came again. Fall drowned me.

As I watched the trees, then ground, explode in a riot of gold and red,

Fall drowned me.

Autumn is when I knew her.

No other season. No time as sweet.

So spring is for lovers and summers for weddings while winter makes close us all,

Still, no time sweet as fall.

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And although I published elsewhere, I realize I didn’t post my

Autumn Muse

Rice fields are bare, perfect for pheasant hunt day

Up in the mountains the streams sluice like a flume

Red, green, gold leaves carried away

Ice-rimed riffles will be here soon

The hunting party is carried in the dray

In the early morning gloom

Hounds out in the fields bay

Giving the fox no room

She walks along the crackling way – kicking at the leaves where they lay

Smokey fires burn – scenting the late afternoon with their perfume

Out in the fields they’re harvesting the last of the hay

The pumpkins are ripe, planted in June

Defoliant pesticide haze

Cotton leaves fall to their doom

Cotton is picked – in modules it will stay

For its trip to the gin yard where machines will consume

Overhead the Honker Geese sashay

Flying in a V-formation their flight they resume

Honk-honk-honking – they call to say

She waits impatiently for the big harvest moon

Shine down your ray

Oh harvest moon

This is my favorite day

Autumn cannot come to soon

3 comments:

tp said...

Both poems are excellent ! Might reread the first one - a couple of errors - otherwise, a winner.

Might be fun - go ahead and publish the rules.

tp said...

downward chopping - a no no

midsecton of the line land first - anotoher no no

Mit_Moi said...

I didn't say she was "good" at this!!