The Angel of Listening

A group's talking, many

voices interlaced,

a lattice-work of gab--

then all talk suddenly 

stops, as if timed: it's

said "an angel just passed

over," and people laugh,

and then buzzing chat

begins again, builds. Yes:

the Angel of Listening. An

angel of thought, ego retracted

like a cat's claw, minds open

like a veranda on a cottage

near a warm sea. If you can,

come by here more often, Angel.

Help us quiet down, and listen,

and let good thoughts, fresh

ideas, breeze in to mix with

our thinking, refurbish knowing. 

hans ostrom 2022

July: North Yuba River

on the North Yuba River

after wheeling mortar

& carrying rocks all day.

wading, casting a fly--

an old tippet coachman

pattern: white goose

wings, peacock feather

body, black-and-orange

tail. rainbow fly for

rainbow trout. canyon getting

blue. your work-shirt

stinks fine, same for

trout-slimed creel. 

lungs of the canyon

draw air past pines

and oaks. the current

knocks against your

legs like a baby goat.

rush of life never never

stops. here you can pause,

know sufficient peace

and privilege in your life.

plenty of fish in the creel--

maybe breakfast tomorrow.

you stay knee-deep in the flow

for the cool, for the quiet

before the day's door 

closes. now in shadow,

bugs hatch and swarm

biblically. trout leap

in jubilee. reel it in.

stick the fly in cork.

listen. riverside, open

and clean the fish, leave

guts for raccoons. climb

up and out, slipping on shale,

grunting. finally up, winded,

standing next to Highway

49's warm asphalt. no cars

now. tourists in the campground,

town people home or at 

the bar. walk in soaked

jeans and boots up to

the old battered car. 

creel in the trunk. grunt

getting in. start her up.

home in less than a mile.

July mountain air sweet

after heat of day. thanks. 

hans ostrom 2022