Omens and Signs

I have an old-school, classic creel
so worn I have replaced straps.
I keep it in shape
with that elixir of ancient leather,
Neatsfoot.
Should use some on myself.
Always fish with my basket,
keep an occasional fish to fillet,
take out the y-bones:
lost skills linked to honing knives,
field-dressing game and such.
Anyway, these days
as I haul my old carcass toward home
along cold river bottoms,
remote high creek game trails,
my antediluvian tabernacle of trout
clinks and rattles
with the can and bottle trash
of the feculent fools befouling the banks.
Sometimes run out of space and patience
and slide a bottle onto an upright dead branch
above the high-water mark
for later.
Till I get back
I think of it
as my silent salute
to the savages.