ELIZABETH WELSH
Early morning, they set whitebait nets together
Start. On the lee side of the mountainous plain
there is an alcove. It beds in a shadow
of dryness: a scape.
Her mountain-mother set whitebait nets
with her last September: the yolky fry of immature fish.
Those high altitudes made her belly quiver.
*
Above the caterwauling peaks, warm air
and rain condenses. It swifts over top
without dropping.
The Great Fern Radiation takes place;
most mountain families were carved here.
*
There was a clapping that collided with her tongue.
Glass eels were mistakenly snared in the veined nets; they thrashed
pendulously, bewildered, bleached and oh-so-tired.
*
Roomy, the alcove is surprisingly light.
It sags into the cliff-
face, a comforting afternoon jowl
slump. There is time enough.
She gathers the nets from beneath the hot asphalt bags; regroups
at the base of the plain; counts supplies;
prays.
*
Start. Its smell is blunt. The new
fiddleheads have not yet sprung.
Her circa mother always
took her early.
These shades of mountains are almost mothers;
these almost mothers are shades of mountains.