13th Lake Quadrangle
My brother Matt and I fished the beaver pond’s
opposite banks. He wore his red felt hat—
from his teen years’ pitch for sartorial splendor.
I had just caught a small but legal brook trout
when six hummingbirds locked onto Matt’s hat
like onto radar. They encircled his head then left
abruptly, lifted like a brief thunder storm.
I yelled across to Matt:
“What was that like?”
He yelled back:
“It sounded like the D.C. beltway!”
Then wild quiet got its grip again.