Wade in knee deep
Pristine glacial-fed river water
Pole, hook and line in hand
Net at the ready
Fish basket on my belt
Aspens wave with a chorus of birds
Who help call in the poet faeires
Their hummingbird wings suspending them above the rushing bubbles
Set down the pole
Casting back and forth makes for sore elbows and shoulders
Harsh sunlight makes for a sunburned brow
Plastic fishing line snagged on passing sticks
Broken off and
A plein air painting
Framed by white capped peaks
Perfect without words
Mayflies skim the water’s edge
As if water had an edge
It’s softness laps against flat black rocks
perfect for skipping sentences and mixing metaphors.
I put down my pole
Lean it against the backbone of a cottonwood tree
I close my eyes and dream of the faeries
Miraculously, the basket fills with trout.
I’ve taught myself to fish.
Lynn Scozzari lives in Southern California with her husband, 2 dogs, 3 cats, some fish and a college-aged son who comes home to visit occasionally. A one-time magazine editor, she writes when she’s able and submits works occasionally. Her work has been published in a local poetry anthology and online at Survivor’s Review.