I was fishing in my dream on a river,
wading thigh-high in tennis shoes and levis,
fly rod bowed, German Brown dancing on his tail.
I could not feel my toes pinched between boulders
and cobbles, nor the current, nor my knees braced
bone to bone as I cast again to catch a rainbow.
Fat hungry trout on a gray river, round rocks held
in the cutbank, canopy of dogwoods, cedar and pine—
pure delight behind an old man’s eyes searching
the next riffle and eddy, reading water beneath,
moving upstream with the grace of a heron, patiently
in my sleep—a final cut edited for prime time.
drycrikjournal 