Suddenly there, I’m eight years old again,
eager to fish Slate Run for the first time.
Behind us are ferns and mountain laurel,
which we walked through to reach the water’s edge.

It’s April in the Allegheny hills.
Queen Anne’s Lace brightens the opposite shore.
Beyond this, a mist blankets the meadow.
The stream rushes by, wild as any storm.

You pause to push your wicker creel aside,
and cinch the waders tight along your thighs.
I watch the pat, the tuck, the double buckle snaps,
the bed of moss that’s laid within the creel.

In time, in turn, bit by bit, I follow
the father-stuff; an imperfect mirror
into which you look, smiling, pleased that
your shadow follows with great intentions.

A roosting turkey, hidden in a pine,
flies off when we step into the water,
which seems ecstatic with its tiny leaps,
that rock to rock, create an endless rapture.

There’s a rising cold shock below the knees.
A palpable tang drifts in from the spruce.
Upstream, behind us, the full sun appears
as a bright ball that funnels down its light.

The ripples flash by like a burst of wings,
while the high hills become a perfect green.
Sing me a song, you say, sing me a song,
you repeat, pulling line out from the reel.

The fly rod lifts like a Samurai sword.
And then, momentarily, everything’s lost
in translation beneath the morning sky.
The line lengthens in air, pulled out it seems

by an invisible bird, something so free
the wind becomes a shadow in its wake.
But bone on flesh, the sure delicate flick
of wrist, and the steady fix of your eyes,

come together to make the leader dance
across the sky, until, a kind of birth
takes place when, like a thought that’s taken form,
the crane fly that you tied the night before,

settles on the water. Seconds later
there’s the primal explosion when worlds meet,
as a brook trout, like speckled lighting,
smashes into the air. It’s almost frightening;

that instinctual, electric fury
fueled by the genes that want to stay alive.
It disappears, sinking like a hammer.
Going, going, going, but not quite gone-

only the slack, which tightens and slices through
the water like a rabid jig saw blade.
The graphite bends until the eyelet’s wet.
The reel clicks, signaling the line’s escape.

And then, it’s done, there’s nothing left to see
but weightlessness from when the leader broke.
Better that way, you laugh, better that way.
I’m eight years old again, talking with you

on the phone, though thirty-eight years have passed
since that big bellied brook won its freedom
for one more day. How many followed it?
Within five minutes the subject changes

into the real reason that you called.
It’s nearly Spring. Soon, mayflies will return
in droves so thick it’s hard to see the clouds.
I see the stream. I see the trees. I see the way

the mountains outlive everything we’ve known.
In this I try to keep from breaking down.
Cancer is in your throat and you tell me
it’s time to play the cards that you’ve been dealt.

I demand more than these workshop clichés,
but when I assail you with my concerns,
Your silence singes me with powder burns.
A week’s worth of sunrises will find you

in ritual, fleshed out by rain or mist,
and reflected in the silver dazzle
that exists as both particles and waves,
mid-stream, where the water runs cold and deep.

The line jerks tight, the rods all aquiver
as it surges, once more, into the depths.
You will want nothing more and nothing less
than these moments which, now, make you forget

the weightlessness, something as close as that.

__________________________________________________________

Michael P. McManus has published in numerous journals. He's the recipient of a Fellowship from the Louisiana Division of the Arts. He has work forthcoming in Mochila Review and Lichen Literary Journal, among others.  

__________________________________________________________

home