Trout Fishermen

By John I. Blair

One night when we were sleeping
In our shelter at Meridian
I was wakened by the sound
Of people moving past along the road.
Now people do not normally walk
At five o’clock in the morning
Along the dead-end road
That goes past all the shelters
By the lake at Meridian,
So I took notice.
Looking out toward the lakeshore
I saw that it was lined
With scores of half-seen figures,
Men and women standing by the water
In the murky night-time mist.
And I wondered
What was this ritual by the water
In the small-eyed hours of night
Here at Meridian?
Finally, having found no answer,
Soggy with sleepiness,
I lay down again,
Half-thinking I had dreamed
My vision of the shoreline people;
And when I woke, well after dawn,
They were no longer there.

Only after asking at the gatehouse
Did I learn the pure, cold, spring-fed lake
Had just been stocked with 15,000 trout
For the winter season
And this was opening day.

©2002 John I. Blair