“One day standing on a river with my fly rod
I’ll have the courage to admit my life to myself”
A long last swig of thermos coffee, some extra tippet
Just in case. We step away from gravel roads
And all the grating calls of civilization
Into the waiting stream.
Still and clear at our feet; dark, swiftly moving on the far shore.
“This pool’s yours. I’ll take the next”
Not even said any longer with any more than a nod.
It’s been so many streams.
A single deer track noted in the wet sand.
A heron freezes upstream and rises to the safety of a small tree
A ring forms near the far bank and then another,
As you have risen in broad concentric rings in this life.
How many mornings are we given?
How many herons?
How many true brothers?
How long ago did the fish just become the excuse
To step into that stream one more time?
The fly cast, an exercise in hope and mystery.
An invitation to the world to surprise us.
Our lives turning over with each loop.
We learn and relearn the laws of catch and release
Until it is we who get released.