Hank

He lived in the Bodfish Valley,
hermitted away from whatever past
he was running from, undiagnosed PTSD
of WWI or an unfaithful wife,
as the story goes, living alone
off the Canadian-Pacific Railroad line,
deep in the woods, “a tall, raw-boned man 
in need of a shave, social, on his own terms.” 
He lived, too, off the woods, earning his way, 
this honest man, a trapper of mink and coon, 
muskrat and weasel, a cutter of trees, admired 
for his skills, his cutting stride long and deep, 
and a picker of gum, keeping to himself, 
safely hidden, hermitted in these Maine woods.
Here, in these parts, though, he’s a hero, 
his past and then present no matter to anyone,
nor his burley beard and rough appearance,
frightening strangers stumbling upon him, thus confronted.

An April day, the ice “out,” soft and broken,
led Bob and Charlie and young son Cliff, out, too,
onto the lake, spring fishing ahead of the crowds, 
those touristy anglers invading, disrupting, unwanted 
in this secret spot they claimed as theirs.
But a Maine lake can hold disaster for the skilled
and the unwary, the fate perhaps of fishermen too eager,
and Bob in his springtime eagerness stood
to push aside the ice blocking their way.
The lake, then, fighting back, for one cannot
hurry springtime, overturned their fragile craft,
a slight canoe, narrow and long, and dragged him
under, weighted down, to his death, sparing, though,
Charlie and young son Cliff clinging, wet and cold,
to life and canoe, awaiting their own fate
in the cold waters of a Maine lake, unobserved,
their calls unheard, no one to rescue them, save them.
Young Cliff, perhaps too young and foolish, let go
and swam to shore, a feeble attempt, daring but foolish,
shaking now, quaking, freezing alone on the shore,
calling out to the wind and his father, barely hanging on.
But on a ridge above, the only ears to hear their cries
were Hank’s, he about his solitary business, trapping, 
cutting, picking, listening, and hearing, launched
a second canoe, to haul Charlie aboard, safe and cold,
fading perhaps, the feeling gone from his limbs,
numbly hanging on, his last confessions on his lips,
ready to slip under to accompany Bob to the Pearly Gates,
a watery grave for the two below the surface.

But a fire built and fueled, blazing high and hot,
soon had Charlie and Cliff thawed and warmed, revived
and rescued, gracious and turning to find he was gone,
back to the woods, his solitary business, solitary life,
hermitted away from whatever past he was running from,
social on his own terms, this honest man, Hank.