The line whips like water spray,
like air itself
drawing Ss onto the wind.
Even with roll casts,
using the adhesive water
you see the curves
in every twitch of the sprung line,
in this game of tag where you
strike water, trick fish
and win with hook in lip.
My friend, the fly fisher, jokes
about using little band aids
before sending them back, bruised,
betrayed by feathers, fur, cork, hook.
He has the deft hand of a man who knows
how to see stonefly, dragonfly nymph,
honeybees, the difference between
swirls of currents and ripples of fishtail.
I’m learning to hear
the change in music three fish bring
to the waters around my boots,
to my own currents of blood
as I sense prey, knowing one day
I will die, no catch and release for me,
only hawk talons
taking me upward
into the strong and terrible air.