Some nights when the fishing slows,
when the stripers
and hybrids drift through the cove like elusive thoughts,
you crank in the jig, prop the rod in the boat.
Some nights the trees on the bank are black and soundless,
a fat wall of darkness,
and the silence on the water feels like the voice
of a great absence.
Across the wide cove the lights of the bait shop
flicker like insects,
and, finally, a few stars struggle through the shredded clouds.
Silence, then, exceeds the darkness. Silence.
You grasp the gunnels and lean forward,
you catch a long breath.
That gnawing in your chest sharpens and spreads.
Your grip tightens.
The rustle in your ears is something grand and awful
straining to announce itself.
Your jaw trembles. Out of your yearning
the silence shapes a name.
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