mountains, the placid water, sluggish at
river’s bend, the fly placed just right, quick flick
of the wrist and timing is everything,
the trout strike in the dying day . . . I watched
the old man tie this lure, enchanted by
his fervor and curious how a twist
of thread and wire becomes siren to these
river dwellers. He’s gone now, so this fly’s
a treasure I cannot replace . . . and yet
it would seem a dammed disgrace to leave it
unused in a shadowbox after all
the old man’s passionate toil. Besides, this
is my first four-pounder in three decades
of fishing; the first for wall, not skillet.

dmpitchford