Mostly to discover flowing water
he’d never fished before. To craft
a perfect cast between a riffle
and a fallen log, entice a rainbow
trout to stir the surface, create
some intricate swirls, a trail of eddies.
He was strictly catch and release.
What’s important is knowing that
they’re there. Each spring I picture him
in frigid water, pants rolled up. No
waders or fancy gear, only a timeworn
bargain bin pole, a fly he tied with blue
jay feathers and squirrel fur collected
from the yard. Let’s say the sun is ready
to dip below a row of budding maples
along the shore. He bends to swish bright
iridescent scales from his large hands—
another feisty rainbow netted then
set free. If there are other anglers present
they tell themselves it was dumb luck,
not skill, but their eyes widen as he slowly
works his way upstream toward
an undulating hatch of mayflies above
a shallow pool where rise rings start to spread.