Fishing

I don’t catch many fish
I’m not a natural
The arc of the weighted line and fly
As it sails through the air
Is like a poem
Find the rhythm
And the fly lands by the rock
And floats lifelike along the riffle
And over the basking trout.
But often the cast is out of step
With the air and the arm is
Out of step with the rod
And the fly drops like the fake it is
On top of where
The fish waits, pushing
Against the current,
Disdaining crude artifice.
I step gingerly upstream
Stay in the shallows
I’ve been too deep before, waist high
And the power of the water
Was suddenly terrifying
River knee high, stones visible
Beneath the surface
Water rushing sound round
Waders boots, cool through fabric
Retying line and leader
Eying the late day sun
Aiming for a long bank cast
Don’t spook the fish
A new fly
Elk Wing Caddis.
One cast, get it right
Keep it simple.
We live in different worlds
I’m invading his
Literally out of my depth
If I venture too far.
I cast -- eight o’clock, two o’clock
The flick of the wrist
The slow roll of the line
Behind and upward
And the snap the snap
As the line shoots forward
The caddis lands soft and gentle
As if alive and borne on the wind
And SNAP!, the trout bites and lifts
Breaches and falls
And then runs the line out
We are connected now
Our two worlds
An alien encounter
I reel and pull
He runs and tires
A contest with no time
Just a flow of moments
Until caught.
I hold him in the cold current
Sun-sparkled scales flash
In the shallow water
A healthy Rainbow
Unscathed. Maybe.
I thank him. And then,
Untethered,
We release each other, and he flashes away
Upstream, strong against the flow.
I thank the water and the trees
And the river.
I fish another hour
Cast, drift, reel, think.
Meditation.
I catch nothing.
But that’s okay.
By Neil Bostock