Sometimes I imagine The darkness of late afternoon Exists to remind me how surely All light will disappear. There is no hesitation As the sun, in heavy clouds, declines Behind hills - just as suddenly All thoughts of day vanish, too. The cold rises with Venus, an evening Star this time of year. The world becomes a circus of circles: Stars, the float, this hole I stare into. I stare As if the whole world depends on me Being here staring through a hole In Ice, answering the old riddle About what gets bigger the more Is taken away. I could count My losses as losses, but tonight The world begins its graceful slide Toward spring. Winter seems to pause A moment. Gathering itself suspended In night: like bait suspended By the float above bottom, Like ice suspended above the density Of water, air above ice, and on Into the infinite vacuum of space. The float tugged beneath the surface Threatens to pull me down, too. Instead I draw the line tight And set the hook. I might as well be reeling in stars. Reflected through dark water To just within reach, becoming a fish That can't live in air. My cold hands fold Around him as if in prayer.

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Larry M. Gavin is a graduate of Southwest State University’s Literature and Creative Writing Program, and Bread Loaf School of English. His poetry, essays, and stories have appeared widely in outdoor and environmental magazines including Fly Rod and Reel, Gun Dog, and the Minneapolis Star Tribune. Mr. Gavin was the 1996 recipient of the Bread Loaf Poetry prize, and he has several poems in the upcoming anthology Minnesota Seasons: Tales of a Life Outdoors to be published this May. He’s currently the poetry editor and a contributing writer for Midwest Fly Fishing, a Minneapolis based publication.

Each summer he works as an instructor at The Midwest Fly Fishing School in Wolf Creek, Montana. He lives in Faribault, Minnesota, with his wife Patty, their son Fergus, and various dogs and rodents.