It's Dawn

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.