by Ron Jevaltas


We scramble, we raise

our voices, are calipered

by what’s in vogue; and


all that is but a

whisker on Father Time, a

pimple on his ass.


With all that said, I

still will harken my beat, still

want my say to re-


verberate even

if the chamber is hollow,

the chasm too deep…


Painted on the brink,

ground fog: it’s stealthy paws

and tight wound thews; caught


under sun peek and

the lavender hemmed treeline – lifts

and pounces on the


breach of all that’s left…

A cormorant skims Pine Point

ripples, crossing an


eagles shadow. I

hear the peen along side the

tumble of blue jays


and highway traffic.

Not so much a sport as it

is a way of life,


painting. No where else 

swirls and sweeps as does that

shore – a hen and her


brood cross my rod tips

as children across the lake

stridently summer.