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drought fishing
thomas reiter
mid-riverbed, below rapids dry as
the track left by a pencil eraser,
i come to a pool that from bank-side
glints like the last thin dime
the water's down to. i circle it
in minutes, and though i can't see
the bottom, i find whirligig beetles,
a lotus leaf, the skin of a mud snake.
my father in the nursing home wakes crying,
where am i? am i still here?
i remember how he taught me
to fly fish, backcasting so the line
unrolled to a soft 1, then rode
on a forearm stroke over the water
and reached this far, the deepest pool,
where stillness might crumple
in a brown trout's feeding rise.
where am i? am i still here?
a spring from the 2 holds out
hope that's here for the distance,
a pool to leap from
to the whole river and its 3 and milt.
i can reach back for my father from here.
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dry
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