Salmon of Knowledge

I have come to catch the
salmon of knowledge
and I think I see him
resting in the riffle
at the head of a still
pool here on the banks
of Baby Wagon in the
Big Horns.

Big Horns are plenty mystic.

Here a hoary tree
leans out over
screeching cold water,
oozing resin.

That sap could easy be
clots of wise blood
emanating from the
Mother Tree.
Could easy be
the blood red nuts of
the Goddess,

meant to feed the wily fish
that I intend to catch.

I’ll lift him on my fly,
fry him delicately
in bacon grease and ancient
cast down cast iron
over an open fire.

Savor the flesh of a
Big Horn rainbow.
Pray to, and for the wisdom
of the Old Ones…

until I, too
can spew forth articulate
that which is impossible

to explain.