Traps

The spud keyed up the ice



like Tec was trying to chip



flakes into his lemonade.



That’s pretty fucking deep



right there, he massaged



from cheeks taut



with the cracked



shake of trees



unchewed: not much



but jagged beeches,



stretching their necks



against the settling



cut of cold.



 



He stepped slow



through the flat snow,



enough to cover the leaded gouge



of the spud.



 



Gotta cut some poles,



he said, kicking a clean chew astray.



That’s a big house.



He fingered the painted hatchet.



 



His hole echoed across the



whited bog—long enough to get



the dead-spruce poles down,



wide enough to get



a fifty pounder up. Diving



his hand and wrist and arm



into the black,



it came back crystalized.



 



Right there—that’s the channel to



the feed bed over there,



a snapped stick lump



large enough for four.



 



Tec pinched the springs in place,



strapped those to the poles.



Using a three-thirty here,



a blind set here.



Tec rapped on smiling



green splint sticks



in his oiled pack basket.



This here popple



is candy to them.



He wired a chunk



to the wiley trigger.



 



The ice moaned deep and low,



the pins, the masses



leaned in, stared.



 



Tec sets the toothless jaw wide,



a gummy smile of rust,



it slips into the water,



nestles aside the muck.