The Master on the McCloud River
true to my arm’s arc,
maker of tight, long loops.
Like the maestro at the stand
my rod becomes my baton on the river,
conducting the rhythm of my day.
I slide her four pieces together and make her one,
each piece held tight, with oil
taken from the side of my nose.
At the moment of strike,
she is transformed into a thin Buddha,
bowing, as I do, to the master at the end of my line.