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.