fishing | drycrikjournal

I crave the quiet intimacy of creeks

that feed the bigger rivers

roaring in the granite gorges

or widespread in redundant riffles

with nothing to say. I rather fish

dark cutbanks and water skeeter

eddies frothed below white dogwoods

arching over High Sierra leaks, eclipsing

all but mottled light as I move upstream—

each small pool a unique realm

for browns and rainbows

grazing transparent skirts.

Now that I know I won’t go back,

it is not an appetite for trout

that consumes sweet memories.

Good bug year:
Daddy Longlegs
on a wet paint wall,
Crane Fly waiting
for me to dry
and hang my towel
back, herds of Earwigs
hiding between the leaves
of artichokes, and bitter
gnats drowning
in my uncovered wine.
Most don’t bite

but feed the Phoebes
and one another
in the springtime,
summer, fall.
Hatch upon hatch,
I dream of casting
to eddies, riding riffles,
the splash and set
of hook, playing
and landing trout
if there were
any rivers running.