Whipping his line
in great looping
arcs, a fly fisherman
stands in midstream,
mist rising, mayflies
floating in moist,
heavy air like snowflakes.
He reads riffles
and pocket water,
hearing an unfinished
song in the current.
Leaping brookie,
bent rod, he reaches
with heart as much as hand,
netting the writhing
liquefaction of flesh,
quickly releasing it, hoping
it will catch him again.
