My husband buys five acres east of the city

to build a fish camp. He urges me to clear

my calendar Friday to Sunday, suggests I can

photograph autumn’s flaming hills, write

in my journal while he casts his fishing line

for bluegill and bass. Like an uncle’s rumpled

trench coat, sleeves too long, worn through

at the elbows, this rough-hewn house blunts

my chiseled life. Yet this place fills him

like the clods of dirt he packs into snake holes,

wind scuffing the ridge. So I spend the weekend

at the cabin. For him. For the porch and light-

splayed clouds. Quiet water. I watch him

unload two-by-fours, fashion baseboards,

reach for his screw gun. I pick up my pen,

sculpt words into textures. A fawn’s furred

spots, jagged bark, leaves veined like wings.

Bodies of slick fish, bendy and alive.

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