Carri Sandholtz
Fishing, we whiskey-rhythmed, river-sieved, waiting on pepper-tongued trout and whispering. Autumn's eve: twilight quickens the white of his sleeve, lisps in the eucalyptus silvering, sings in the plink of the shot; he lets it sink, stiffen the line, sees the moonshine nip at the hook , deep in the eddy's silt. At odd, a silence interrupts the crickets, sobers our wind-slurred syllables. Lavender forgetfulness is spent, fast eclipsed below the moon-slicked black, as river rhythms grieve October's yoke. He retrieves his cast, our hope for Autumn's last quicksilver-bellied trout, as darkness slopes.