John Morgan
Scouts Spear-fishing on the Chatanika

Cross-legged on the bank around
a stylish blaze our fathers counted coup—
how beautiful from the air

those cities lit by bombs,
the giddy godless scare
of elemental flack, blue sequins

on the black. At dusk, we hit the beach
and slogged against the current in
our rubber wading breeches.

Cold, fast, slippery like the rush of
inspiration, whitefish burst
upon us, gleaming in our headlamps

like a spray of meteors. Laughing,
screaming, jabbing with our tridents, bloodying
the waters—not one caught.

They whipped right past and
vanished down the river like
guerillas with their terror into
existential darkness, or the silence of a thought.