This is for Carl, Fred, and Larry, my ice fishing buddies.
Walking on water isn’t the miracle people think.
Not only have I crunched across the lake’s surface, now I am sitting on it,
staring into a nine inch hole drilled through two feet of ice.
The miracle is
the sunshine and blue sky,
The roiling grey clouds held at bay by the circling mountains,
The wind driven ice particles scooting hundreds of yards across the ice.
The miracle is found in two sixteen inch trout that lie glowing on the ice;
Bronze, black, pink, and deep water-green.
The Word, The Creator, is being revealed and proclaimed in glory too immense for speech,
too delicate to explain.
Today, ice fishing is not an act of idiocy,
Only wordless awe.