Haster's Creek isn't a large stream. It rolls gently down from deep inside Bakerfield Hill, basking under the warm sun that always seems to be running from the puffs of clouds shrouding the mountain's icy top. The creek roams lazily around the countryside, feeding the lushness that has decided to grow on its' moss covered banks until finally it empties into a languid pool of crystal still water. Colonies of duckweed blanket the pool and padded water lilies drift and turn with the wind. An old knotted log juts through the pools' surface, covered with the remains of trout, perch and sunfish the old snapping turtle brought from the water to eat. Long laced ferns grow from the black soil of the banks edge and the trees surrounding the pool form a canopy of leaves that lap the mirror like gloss of the surface in places.
Beside the mountain fed pool is a great gnarled oak, its' crown splintered by the lightening of a storm years before. Now a rotting pinnacle, wood and bark clutter around its' decaying trunk and the inner core of wood is softened by the constant drilling of termites.
The dying old man remembered and now lay beneath the dead oak. As a boy he knew this place. He knew where every rock hid a salamander, where every bird came to drink. He memorized the deep cold channels harboring the biggest trout and the shallow coves where the minnows erratically dodged the larger fish that drifted shoreward as the sun sank behind Bakerfield Hill. Memories of a strong, younger oak whose thick branches curved out over the cool water. Memories of pirate ships afloat on the vast salt inlet, of one eyed buccaneers planting bullion beneath the hard packed sand.
Snow fell last around his place. It always seemed to wrap the bare branches overlying the pool with a covering of sparkling white, then drift slowly down until it came to rest on top of the icy crust covering the water. After the first snowfall, he always ran down to the oak and grinned to himself, leisurely counting the tracks branded into the fluff and sucking on an icicle he cracked off a low hanging branch.
The old man remembered and he smiled a faint delicate smile that moistened his eyes and the tears fell with the memories of a contented boyhood, of long forgotten memories, of yesterday's dreams. But his time was fading and now its' shadow ran fast, clutching tightly to his worn life, tearing apart the memories of a boy and of a man. Slowly, his tired eyes flickered shut, locking forever behind the thoughts that made him laugh, that made him cry, that made him dream.......and Haster's Creek rolls gently down from deep inside Bakerfield Hill.
Ray Bayer
copyright@ 2001 by raybayer.... not to be reprinted without written permissionm of author
This is where the old man sat. His shirt flapped lazily in the wind, tugging at his stringy back and his black matted hair caught the salt that floated up from the water below. The sun cracked his dark brown face leaving it calloused and as hard as his tendonous bare feet. A ripped straw hat dangled between his blistered fingers, its' crown gaurded by a bleached eel skeleton. The sea shone a glassy smoothness that day and the air resounded with the laughing of hundreds of sea birds. A thin coat of clouds blew apart and washed the sky leaving it a light shade of blue.
The old man carefully stood, shaking his thin head, sending sand and salt showering from his hair. Slowly he shuffled to the cliffs' edge, gazing languidly at the glistening water. He turned his gaze casually from the horizon and thoughtfully glared at the boulders below, spat once and jumped.
Ray Bayer
copyright@ 2000 raybayer..... not to be reprinted without written permission of author
but
petals fall
Grown men walk
but
babies crawl
Someone grew
but
growth can't moan
that
two breed love
but
one's alone
The wrinkled fisherman down by the pier draws back and throws his line far out over the still water. A thousand casts, a thousand strikes, a thousand misses. The worn plug hits the water, hovers a second beneath the surface then slowly sinks, swaying hypnotically to the rhythm of a silent song. Achingly, he sits back and quiety counts the widening ripples left by his plug. One....two....A large bass suddenly splits the surface, is airborn for a few seconds and is gone. The old man stares at the ripples until the last one shudders and dies.
He reels his line in, takes the old lure in his hand and gazes at it.
"Somebody wants me to forget you old boy."
He smiles.
"We're both gettin old you know. Your paint's long been chipped off and now your wood's startin to crack. Maybe I should cut the line and let you just float and bob peaceful like for the rest of your days, but then I'd be all alone. Be no more fishin, just sittin and waitin."
Slowly he turns his gaze towards the sinking sun and watches the horizon burst into a vibrant red.
He mellows.
"I remember when I had someone to watch me get old 'n to tell me it wouldn't be so bad. She used to say that if those damn blues'd ever come around she'd take after them with a shotgun full of happiness. You know what happened? Those damn blues came around anyways. And you know what she did? She died 'fore she could even load that gun."
Slowly the sun melted into the sea and the red horizon turned black leaving behind only the cool dark shadow of night.
Ray Bayer
copyright@20000 raybayer....not to be reprinted without written permission of author