Four grainy timber walls

Topped by a nondescript brown roof.

Physically utilitarian, recreational in purpose.

An ice fishing shack.

 

It is a perfect convenience

Erected after the thickening of ice

And serving one purpose:

Fishing.

 

It houses three men, or two and a dog

Who, warmed by a hearty wood stove,

Sit upon coolers and camp chairs.

Minding their rods, not their p’s and q’s.

 

At season’s shift from harsh to fair

The shack is left undisturbed.

Its purpose fulfilled, it settles in and

Waits for the inevitable.

 

Day’s lengthen and the lake’s frosty skin

Begins to perspire, then, to sweat profusely,

Until suddenly there’s a resounding “Crack!”

And the shack plunges under.

 

And the three men,

Or the two with the dog,

Now gather by campfire

Sharing stories and songs.