These Men of Berkshire

Dedicated to all my hunting and fishing buddies in Berkshire Massachusetts. I hope you can all still lift the fishing pole and haul the fish home to mama. The only deer you bagging now is probably already home. Miss you guys.


Blustery winds howl as snow jets to earth.
The land freezes.
Deep Winter sets in.
The only language spoken now? "Berkshire."
From rusted hook and even nail
hats of wool and Mackinaw appear
as though from fairies in the night.
Sticks, with orange flags rise up.
Bait is at the ready.
Men who speak "Berkshire" will walk on water.
They will catch the noon meal before the sun opens its eye.
On the ice they will whisper the ancient words,
the language of the fish and ponds.
And in a huddle, by a fire on the shore,
they will sing it in a silent song.
And in their silence
they are one.

Copyright: Barbara Walsh Tatro May/2008