In the middle of June, every summer,
my father buried his fishing shirts in Canada,
rowing out to the middle of the lake early in the morning,
— the water all fog, wisped like a pot coming to boil.
Those shirts would sink, wrapped around rocks
my sister and I dug out on the shore.
I have wondered what those stones did
to the architectures of the pike and walleye below,
fish-sized boulders hurtling down
through the grey green of Dog Lake
and crashing into those mud towers
we dreamed rose from the basin;
all soft curves and suggestion, shaped by fin.
Tartan trunks grow up through these towers
and pierce the silver surface where all fish eyes gaze.
Bolts of flannel flutter in the breeze,
the branches spreading across the water are heavy with plaids.