This is far as I want to go.

                    A series of cascades beneath
                    each tiny pool, clinging
                    to mossy rocks to cast a fly—
                    to catch a Brown. Remember

when you knew, heard
danger whisper in your ear?
Is this where I’ve come to die
so young? It could have been

anyone, any time, looking down
a cliff at death, waiting for a slip—
this place we fished as boys,
miles upstream, leapfrogging
for first cast on fresh water.
We came home with trout
you had to eat on Fridays.

                    My topo map of gray matter
                    where the Middle Fork flows
                    on granite through cedars—
                    my metaphor for everything.

Jeffers had it right, you know:
‘Let Them Alone’. Leave them
to their solitary art. Only a few,
like Maya Angelou, can fly
and fish at the same time.

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