The Freeze Fishermen of Copperas Branch Park

         At the lake inlet they used to call Tower Bay            the fishermen pretend
       this is not three days of snow on the ground
               that there was no ice causing the residents to park askew
            with at least one tire on the gravel side of the curb
                 and another on corrugated box halves that won’t let their tires spin

             but there is certainly snow on the ground
        and bursts of frozen breaths on the air like refused clouds
             floating at six feet and hanging on to their moments of wintry life
    hoping for work as background in a selfie
               or to be bounced against swerving and jerking cars on black ice

it will be hard to forget the beauty of Copperas Branch Park
        dressed like a bride in the rolling, curved, blanched blankets of
    snow and winter grass and a stilled-blue-curved and circled expanse
         of lapping and bank-licked watery glass
               surely
         this is as near a Texan will come to a glacier
           polar bear   or   hope for a river salmon  about to breach
       still
            for a moment
      before you turn your gaze
                 there is reason to admit that some of the tears in some of the eyes
         are not merely from the hell doused single digit temperature of the day
       there is beauty for miles  well across the land and lake
                 and the fishermen gasp at the white tops of trees
            and their companion trails in the distance
                and wish for fast boats that will take them afar from shore

             these are the barren few days of our surrender to Winter
         days and nights of forbidden chill and dangers
            days where work is done by those who know no comforts
    and are called to surrender their fears and safety
                  so that others with more can pretend want
          and the fishermen are here  in search of braggadocio
         their bravado and prowess against lesser warmth seeking foes
      will pepper social media in bursts of annoyance
            and their witnessing video reels of moving water and curses at loose lines
      will be a testament  to the decision of warm men

at sundown
     or the unbearable creeping in of cold
    the parting fishermen  shake their collective heads in turn
              as they skitter passed each other to their trucks
       with a  hope that splashes of bleach
   over the grooves and deep treads in their tires
          will grapple thru the layers of black ice
        and claw their trucks up the hill
      when it is their turn
  to curse thru a frosted pane at the smoke and whipping rear end
            of
     escaping capture
        like the ones on their lines
    in the ignored Texas tundra of the lake
   that they will soon talk about
       in front of fireplaces
         the ones that jumped with their hook set
   mouth agape    body fat with the strength ready for the spawn
              and a whipping tail
           beating and slapping and jerking
       until it got away

1-25-2026

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1-18-2026

To Watch A Bridge Beg From Water

     I know this bridge
    and a stretch of curve in its life
 with a thousand thunderous footfalls
     that left no dusty tracks
    that landed and lifted  and bounced 
        with precision and clarity and aplomb 

      Except for my clumsiness with rods and bait
  my unsteady romping and wandering 
      my eyes taking in wisps, willows and wandering vines
     that Tarzaned between native plants and trees 
  swollen up from the risen lapping lake water
   this bridge between curving asphalt rivers

      for all these years 

     would likely have succumbed to the insanity 
  of this now
        dry, weed-woven and wanton river basin beneath it
    None of these footfallers 
    twenty eight years hence
  beg their imaginations for the truth of my wanting photos from this bridge
      they slow themselves down 
    and imagine me a slippery slope in time
   my cup of coffee and moving camera 
         clearly a ruse
      a rugged setting Sunday sun

     unworthy of adoration:
   revealing shadows on a dim stoned tower
      ricocheting a tremendous whipping dance of tree limbs, branches and vines chiaroscuro 
     against a dry season behind me in my white shirt 
     Like the bridge
    the fleet footed erasures of mankind

    have no need of this mile-marked spot before the next flash of stone and rusted steel marker
       but
    they stammer in protest of my wanderlust 
      a man who cannot be trusted with bother
    pretends amazement and says,
        “Why?”…”What makes that worthy?…”

      Then, he risks a look, finally, for himself and says, “Must be the sun…maybe” 
             I give him my moment and say,
      It has been a long time, but once
   the bridge you’re on had lots of water beneath 
    and the fish were as thick as the brambles are right now!
          He doubted me but tried his imagination 
     and turned and raised a foot
       “I’ll bet the bridge is begging for that water now!”
      his foot fell to the earth 
      he patted the rust and wood beam of the bridge 
     his foot rose anew
     I saw the sun against his back 

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Jas Mardis is an award winning Writer and Artist. He is a 2014 Inductee to The Texas Literary Hall of Fame; a 2000 Pushcart Prize Recipient and 2026-2027 Poet Laureate of Lewisville, Texas