William Arthur

 by Steve Quirt

William Arthur rose early in the Montana morning
        It was dark, and had a Northern feel about it
        Only a couple of truckers were awake
        Pushing their sixteen wheelers along Route Six.
        Big, beautiful behemoths
                    With Golden Eyes with and Yellow Halos.

He made dark, black coffee from a Green MJB can.

The light switched from Northern to First Light
The Big Sky began to open.

He packed his Jeep with magic and fishing poles
     Tobacco and beer
     He was a smoker and a seer.
     He paid his Union Dues
              Socialist through and through.

He set out for Bitteroot Creek
        Still the place I seek.
Still my inner peak.
             Winding out and down the valley
             Hereford cattle hold the road up
             Forest Ravens point the way –

    Dark and Black they are
           Gliding on the forest air
                 Pointing,
                      pointing
                           ever there.

The creek below runs pure and slow
   Mountain spring and summer rain 
      Winding in and out of this world's illusion
                 A clear and magnificent confusion.

Miss Dorothy Wagner owns the land
        Her father left her with the ranch
               A solo spinster's homespun dance

    She runs her Hereford heifers down below
          Lets them graze the in the old meadow
               Drinking from the secret stream.

Bitteroot Creek wanders through her mountain valley
           Brooke Trout swarm the deep pool holes
                 Boiling up from just below
                        to escape into the morning air.

    They school up and swarm like red wing blackbirds
           Creating great silver colors in the sky.
                 That swim along the jet streams
                    of Heaven;
                         letting the Sun shine through
        While the blue jays call and red cows low.

William Arthur keeps his head down, and lights a Lucky Strike.
      He checks his ancient creel
             For extra flies and holes
    He wears a funky hat from old Ontario

        He pulls on invisible waders.

The path to the creek is paved with blue butterflies
And childhood dreams

                 With deep soft meadows
                             Gold sun beams
                                      With hidden bends and un-ridden trails
With fishing holes that feed the soul.

The Bitteroot is always changing
           William Arthur knows, but he keeps his eye on the fishing

           He has a Secret –

           Secret Fishing Hole

                      A Holy Spot

He always limits-out–
           No Brookie shorter than 12 inches

Mayflies make it easy
       They dance on the water and feed the school
             William Arthur casts out his line
             And watches it dance across the bending pool
             Raising up the big ones from their hole
             To feed the power of his soul
                              To help him walk among the pines.

It doesn't matter at all
How much you think you know
The place is hard to get to
And it's hard to find the road
You have to get up early

To find the fishing hole.