Though The Almanac
would disagree, it's dawn.
Fully an hour before
that sage would announce it
The lesser blue on
the horizon
Visible through the
bare trees
Is measure enough
for me.
The air is solid on
the truck window
Though the winter
devil is not so close
That a brief touch
of warmth
Dispels its touch;
clear vision
for what is ahead.
To the north, six
lamps ,
bobble down a cut in the wood
disappearing
with hushed curses.
Tip tops tangle
And roots grasp
Cleated boots
Downhill, river
bound
Shadows stomp and
pace
At the inside of the
bend.
Lights are now out.
The forge is lit
Bellows build the
fire
The hammer, the
tongs, the switch
of our trade, of our
passion,
Leaded and run deep,
Ready
To work the Steel.
With a keen vision
That old eyes
haven't known
Since the days of
our wee youth
We see, feel, sense,
In the cool, gray
light
The minor tug of
unseen lips
On a morsel of
deception.
A line zips through
the water.
No war cry, but
maybe a grunt,
Perhaps a quiet
recognition,
Of what we've all
been waiting for.
Heads turn in unison
to the sound
All hearts beating a
few steps quicker.
Reel in, with urging
and envious eyes,
Step back, give
room,
willing the fight to
be a good one.
And it is.
No log to be beached
But a bright, shiny,
nickel-
plated demon with
the strength
Of its namesake
It runs
It runs
And so does the
smith
Reeling, praying,
cursing
It runs.
And it is over.
Ambushed on the
beach
By a Scotsman and
his kerchief.
The records books
will not record
This Steel
But it is real and solid
And satisfying to the smith and his peers
In ways that confound words
And emotions and everything.
But that look in the eyes and
the murmured accolades
A handshake, the recognition
That satisfy almost as much
As this Steel.
The smile, the
outward joy
Expressed during
The trip's first
days
Is gone.
Tired, haunted eyes
Dull expressions
from days of casting
Satisfied. Content.
Ready for another
go.
And another,
After that.
Steel is at hand.
