Old Trace Reflection

Another day over 100 degrees. Two butterflies of the same make have found each other in the sun. There are days that I couldn't even find my red t-shirt behind a pair of socks. It is Sunday. I think about making love as if it were a movie that I saw long ago. The camera relied on music, and lighting, and perhaps the lenses moved in on a burning candle as sounds of liquid warmth fill the mind's eye. Can a mind swirl like that? It was forever ago it now seems. Could there have ever been so many hands moving between two people, clawing to gain ground at that invisable summit, where both parties are hoping to fall with toes bent back like pages of a good book? Is this lack of rain all over the world? Shadows of the day that now speak of evening arrest my thinking about these flying wisps of paper, and the heavy smell of freshly cut grass. I have been alone a long time.

With a mind still hovering around butterflies yawning fresh from cacoons broken, I now know the turtle before me is to beautiful to eat. There are others. The snake I have found decides I am too big for it's jaws. I study it's coil and determine it is too much meat for my pot. We both ease off our intended strike of force to seek smaller prey. In a creek that I swam until all light rose up into the trees, I have found many catfish with fat bellies that taunt my flat pan. With dental floss tied to my walking staff, a hook, a small sinker and bobber, and a few hyper worms I found under the first log I rolled, I am already slapping my red legs at bugs I can not see on the way to the water. An hour ago I found lion prints in the sandy shore feet from where I stand waist deep in 85 degree water. Some say that they don't exist here in spite of my tracks. That's a relief, I laugh. I look for gators, but it is a bit late for that. My eyes are everywhere but on the catfish that won't bother my line. My skin is a formation of every bug that bites. My stomach tells me to swat and fish at the same time. I'm wishing that my stomach never saw those catfish all lazy in the sun.
The adventure asked for this. My stomach concured. The idea of fresh fish rolling up their battered sides wet with olive oil on the sizzle of my pan pulled me from the insect world of my tent. I watch the bobber. No, I watch the shore. I forgot my blade. This morning a wild boar sniffed past my camp. Tonight?
My worms out last my nerve. It was an adventure I tell myself as I look into the trees not seeing, or knowing of a house light for miles. On a bank sick with posion ivy my feet opt against the wet foot sock dance. I shove my water logged feet into floppy boots that are afraid to get wet. One foot is still in the water. I hear the music from Jaws. My boots won't hold still. My right foot knows that it is a goner. The music stops when my foot saddles the boot and the last of my flesh hops on shore. Hungry, but happily complete, I fall into my tent to eatbroken crackers.