The tyres creep onto the scab of the lake
and there we are – heh – walking on water.
Smoke-rings clatter from the gas-powered motor.
A wormcast of ice slumps from the augur
and over our fishinghole we bunch like bears,
sift gristly water through a slotted spoon.
We rig the bait – the curled grub and lure –
winch them tenderly down the twinkling fathoms,
stroll them across the wasted lakefloor,
while stealthy, the hole in the ice heals over.
A bad day for fish?
But white noise fogs our lungs and our line.
Your dog makes angels
in the piled banks of snow.