Change in pressure his ears start ringing the moment he turns down the fire lane to Naganash Lake Ears plugged, like breathing inside a jar Must be a low front coming in He opens his jaw pops it doesn’t work Sky overhead, low, and fast Hard not to look —keep the eyes on the pavement— But the clouds are good They work like a brim Blinker still going One, two, three, four Let it tick no one else on the road He pulls up on the lawn to the cabin, like they always did His sister Sally said: Take whatever you want Actually, she said, you could live there at the cabin instead like Grandpa did She just knows he never liked the other house the one he’s fighting so hard for hates it Plaster non-load-bearing pillars Tweed carpet smelling like plastic Worked his whole life to pay for it He looks down at that stump of a left thumb gave a whole half a thumb for it too Told Sally he’ll fix what needs fixing Didn’t answer about the house but First to the boathouse, grab the camp chair The smells hit him he knows them so well like they’ve been in him all along gasoline wet metal fermenting leaves Grandpa’s barometers still hanging on nails He taps the glass of each One, two, three, four Needles jitter Storm/Fair/Falling Taps them again Satisfying sound on the glass Kids’ life jackets squirrel-nutted black-mildewed, webbed Kids haven’t been there for a decade Haven’t been to the house much either Kids are Jenny’s thing he stays on the side Now those three empty bedrooms Nights with too much whiskey laying in those bunk beds not remembering or thinking just laying there He clicks the knob on Grandpa’s transistor Still works "Boys of Summer" He never liked that song always made a place in his chest go small I should just let 'em go, but… Song cuts out Emergency chord tinny and layered “This is the National Weather Service… irregular atmospheric behavior… researchers at the Midwestern Atmospheric Lab expect…” He clicks it off Rather not know Walking down to the shore dull footfalls in his head hearing his breathing too loud The dock’s boards are sagging Nails sticking out Bits of foam floating in the shallows Means something’s nesting in there Sally didn’t bring the dock in last winter Said we’re selling The clouds are still moving fast He sits camp chair tilted on uneven boards Take advantage of the cloud cover fast-moving gray on gray The lake surface is agitated can’t see through it Ripples cross, directionless Soft, slow rain Dropping black dots on the surface Count the ripples as they thin One, two, three, four Then his ears pop the sound, same ringing, a bell that doesn’t stop But outside his head now Like he’s stepped into a much larger room The sound is out on the lake now He heaves himself out of the chair mumbling to himself Better check the damage Cloudy morning Time to rake same one Grandpa used duct tape around the handle bent tooth on the end Twelve strokes Pause Twelve more Water clear today Can see the shifting weeds whole mat of milfoil rising and falling, slow He rakes again Foam comes up with it Bits of dock chewed to pulp Muskrats Twelve more rakes He stops leans on the rake looks out Fast clouds, still no sky Good A bluegill hovers near the surface half-shadowed under a spill of algae like it’s using it for an umbrella Just hanging there Not twitching, not darting Then floating near it like a bit of paint spill on the surface, a fleck of green blue But then it starts shifting It isn’t floating It’s a reflection That damn thing in the sky whatever the hell it is Puts his fishing hat on Brim down Sky out of sight Back to the rake but the reflection, the oil-spill slow movement of it Is the sound louder? Turns away from the mirrored lake gets down on his knees water up to his shoulders weeds tangling all around him Reaching under the dock foam gone soft with chewing holes in the bank bedding packed tight with leaves Sawdust-chewed foam tucked in Tiny kit teeth markings How many babies will there be? He holds still listens Soft squeaks or movement barely audible like wind in a can Could just be the ringing Not sure Back to the boathouse Going to need traps humane ones had a couple back in the day Might need more That night: the dream Slashing open the elk, clean deliberate Its hide peels like wet paper steaming But when it falls into his arms he doesn't let go He cradles its head, presses his face to its neck sobs racking He meets her eyes Dark liquid Like looking into something with no bottom He tries to scrape the organs back in Says I’m sorry again and again His father and grandfather stand there Proud? The organs spill out anyway but there’s no blood No guts Color like oil, slow and curling Then he looks down and sees the blade has opened him too and what spills from him is lake water choked with weeds He wakes in the night The sound like it’s inside the walls now One trap sprung a kit inside shivering Takes it up onto the shore Leaves it there in the trap Says, I'll deal with it in the morning When morning comes the trap is empty Morning steam rises from the burrow hole like breath Mud damp warm, alive Gray reflects gray Perfect glass surface Thinks about taking out the boat he used to live for that Going fishing, the tackle the hush of it getting away Now what’s the point Never could kill anything anyway just tear open their mouths and let them drift out to die The trap being empty irritates him feels personal Then he sees her Muskrat mother, just out there riding the water her snake grace the matted curls of her wet oiled coat dark liquid and knowing She rolls smooth as rope and vanishes He sets out to smoke the nest Builds the fire from scraps half-rotted pine oil-stained cardboard mildewed newspaper Gets a good burn going Shoves it under the dock Smoke curls thick and gray blows back at him Gets in his eyes His chest chokes him thick sour wood-tar heat His temples throb mouth dry Reminds him of Grandpa's pipes the factory forge His thumb throbs always aches in the heat His mind starts filling with pictures he doesn’t want: Monopoly on the living room floor yellow butter-soaked popcorn Where is he? Another: his father No point you even having that Taking the hunting rifle from his hands Then: Grandpa snatching the fish hanging face splotchy You could've been a nature man A real man But… His brother shaking his head almost smiling He grabs a warped board, starts pulling Til its nails break free He rips up another then another Finds that nest, digs it all out with his hand Nothing But there she is again, watching in the water weaving back and forth taunting him, is she showing him her teeth? Go ahead she seems to be saying go ahead try, I am right here There must be another nest Early sky dull, swirling, faint He keeps his eyes on the water The lake surface is that tight skin of glass cold and stretched Then She breaks it Her head first then her back Then two, three, four smaller humps behind her She’s out there with them clear as anything Not even hiding Just out there Smooth and proud And he is in the water before he knows it Boots sloshing jeans gone heavy arms swinging like he can reach them She sees him Lifts her head, turns and is gone He keeps going water up to his ribs breath in his ears Heart punching Then nothing He staggers back to the dock Lies down hard a board cuts under the ridge of his shoulder blade Stays there anyway Sky turning above Doesn’t look up Still damp hands shaking a little He sits up The dock is warming in the morning sun He looks out over the lake once Then down at the deck Starts pulling First a board at the edge then another Doesn’t even go back for tools just kicks, pulls, wrenches Rusty nails tear loose with a groan Old splinters in his palms Feels good Works his way in tearing up the surface Foam underneath eaten through in spots Then there it is another hole wider than the others darker He crouches low Can smell it Warm earth nest smell He’ll come back tonight Gloves, gag, rocks He’ll go quiet this time won’t leave empty-handed Wait for the night Even in the house he thinks he can hear them The high ringing and now underneath it a new sound little rustlings nuzzlings Night comes Clearer than it’s been in days Still no stars The ringing is there steady thinned out stretched Can’t tell if it’s in his ears or out there He comes out with the gloves Canvas duffel he found in the boathouse Fills the bottom with rocks Big ones Fist-size Doesn’t turn on a light Doesn’t need one The dock is stripped The last hole yawning wide He gets down on his side Elbows in the muck reaches in slow Can smell the nest again wet fur mold, warmth Then movement a tiny one Then another soft bodies brushing his knuckles He grabs two, three, four five, six, seven Stuffs them in the bag Zips it Bag moves in his hands He holds it away from his chest Brings it down to the water Stands there bare feet in the muck Lake like slate Colors turning pale around the edges Like dawn but wrong He can’t throw yet The bag jerks once He grips it tighter Sits down in the chair Arms wrapped around it the small animals twist against him Closes his eyes He’ll get up the nerve He will Limbs heavy I’ll just doze off a second then do it Their little bodies calming against his chest He awakes to the sound Tornado siren Light floods his eyelids blinding at first Then the colors The lake flashes silver The sky too loud to look at He looks anyway The sound isn’t just the ringing anymore it’s layered bells sirens cicadas like all nature screaming The sky electric blues hot pinks Oil-slicked and swirling Too bright too close The colors come down The noise builds Both distant and as near as lips against his cheek It’s beautiful Blinding Too much Coming for him Heat in his face cold tears Hadn’t noticed them til then. The bag twitches again Something moves in him too A flicker low in his chest He stands, swings Lets it go It slaps the water flat then disappears trailing no ripple Only the sky Still turning And he stands taking it in The sound moves through him now like he is water Just water No resistance now
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