MZA’s 116th Dream, plus Offseason Haiku #3

Last night I went to the Frying Pan river in my sleep, a mile high and unconscious, casting hand twitching, legs jerking as I stepped off the bank into something deeper than I thought.

The Frying Pan in my dream had tannic northwoods water and balsam firs and graffiti on a railroad bridge that cast aspersions on the entire town of Spooner, WI.

Slint was there, and Beastmaster, and in diffuse cloudy light a pod of western fish working the pool in the slow wake of the trestles of the old rusty Spooner Blows bridge. Slate winged Baetis rode the film and died in trout maws. Standing hip deep in their water I put a dun and a cripple dropper on a rod that hasn’t touched Rockies water since I became a father. They took the dun.

Every one was an aerial wild rainbow, except for the ones that were pink gilled cutthroats flashing weirdly gold in the Namekagon-colored river.

Offseason Haiku #3
I know why the dormant
trout sings: it’s Maya Angelou,
dumbasses. Amen.

2011