by Ken Hada
After three days of hard fishing
we lean against the truck
untying boots, removing waders.
We change in silence still feeling
the rhythm of cold water lapping
thankful for that last shoal of rainbows
to sooth the disappointment
of missing a trophy brown.
We'll take with us the communion
of rod and line and bead-head nymphs
sore shoulders and wrinkled feet.
(the rest of the poem is at A Writer's Almanac)
I'm not the kind of fly fisher who fishes hard for three days, and I don't fish in the winter, but there's still something in this poem that captures what I love about being on the river (or even a pond) and trying to trick the fish into believing that my lure is the kind of insect they want to eat.
I wrote in my KidLitCon recap about the strangeness of my non-overlapping selves. This fly fishing self is completely separate from my teaching self and my blogging self. (Those two do overlap somewhat.) The day I wrote my recap, Garrison Keillor had this poem on A Writer's Almanac. There was no meandering search for a poem for today; this one came to me.
I can't wait to check out the roundup -- hopefully, some of our new friends from KidLitCon will join us this week! We're gathering today at The Writer's Armchair, with Toby (well, actually her cat Kashi) rounding us up.