"Clyde in Fishtown at Bo's House"
At first, mother and father swallow
     did some squawking, their new ones
     just now flying.  And twenty or thirty spiders
     contemplated catatonia, in little brown balls
          before moving on
Ah, Solitude at last!  Then the conspiracy began;
     a contest between boat motors and jet motors.
     One jet came so close, the jet fuel made
          rainbows in my tea.
I asked the pilot if he wouldn't mind changing
     course a few degrees and how the war was going.
He said he'd like to bring his boat out to do some
     fishing after work.
On Thursday two fishermen park downstream about
     thirty feet.
They talk about the "nice fish"
     that one of them lost, while fishing the straits.
I asked them if they'd seen big Butch Hazard,
     the Skagit's toughest, smelliest, meanest, biggest
     fish, a former Olympian swimmer, who could bend
     a crane hook straight just by starin' at it hard.
No, he said, and asked me if I'd seen Buddha.
     They brought the beer
     I brought some wine.
          We told "fishing stories."
clyde