By Charles M. Sumid     Copyright 2025     Written 2000

The ice road groans beneath our weight
in darkness.

Headlights catch yesterday’s snow
drifting.

We know our places.
The same holes where grandfathers drilled.

Setting the flags,
orange against endless white.
Each one planted, visible, bright.

Then the waiting.
We come to sit inside the great silence.

The shanty holds enough warmth.
Coffee tastes different here.

Through scratched windows
we watch our small orange garden.

When it happens,
that sudden flag snapping upright.

The heart lifts
prior to the body moving.

No rush.
The flag has done its sole job.

Hand over hand,
feeling the weight,
the life pulsing.
Each pull a conversation.

We keep them
or we let them go.
The flag doesn’t care.

Reset, rebaited,
it waits again,
patient as winter.

Late afternoon,
shadows grow long.

Time to gather the flags.

Tomorrow
they’ll rise again,
these winter markers.

At home
I oil the springs,
check the triggers.

Such basic mechanics.

Outside, snow starts again.
I think of flags standing guard
over dark water,
over patient fish.

Those orange flags against white ice.
Each one working.

A marriage of need and answer,
of hope and sprung steel.