Glenn G. Coats

In the Hours Before School

no moon
cows bask in the light
of hay

We fall down the road like raindrops from a tall tree. It is dark, no lights yet in the houses. Bicycles whir down the hills and fishing poles point like antennas from the handlebars. Canvas creels flap against our sides. Thick hip boots tug at waists. Fingers are numb from the cold. We pump down Old Clinton Road, pitch-black, silent. Willa’s sleeping spaniels do not wake. We follow River Road then cross over the highway bridge above the South Branch.

Cars are already parked beside the river. Their motors are running for warmth. We park our bikes and wade in the darkness. River currents lift us (light as feathers) from our feet. A circle of fishermen surround the deepest hole and dim stars scatter above us. Eyelets are frozen. Soon the birds will begin to sing.

a radio song
crosses the water
first cast